Halo: Chimera Rogue
by Katsuhiro
Summary: "All units, Maximum Alert. We have a Tier One Asset operating without sanction in a densely populated area. Multiple casualties. Request immediate Spartan support. Fireteam Chimera must be eliminated. Repeat: Fireteam Chimera must be eliminated. Message repeats." [Sequel to Halo: Chimera Rising]
1. Prologue: A Loose End

_Prologue: six months after the events in New Cadiz_

* * *

The diner was small and obscure; one of those backlot places you passed on the street but never entered. Brushed steel, dim lighting and worn leather booths; cracked and faded from age. The air itself seemed to be filmed with grease; as hot lamps burned down on the racks of braised meat and sizzling fat. Swarthy chefs sweated under the down-glare as they flipped and pushed the meat; pans crackling and spitting and hissing.

The place had a name, but neither man cared. They weren't here for the food.

It was here where they met in person for the first time. In the hyper-quick timelines of the Net they were long since known to one another, having spent months corresponding in secretive tones over encrypted channels. Seb knew his companion only by his handle. He knew that the opposite was also true. To his own knowledge he was Sebastien Grummins, forty four years of age, retired tech-com of the UNSC and amateur Net Trawler. Outer Colonist by heart, borderline Insurrectionist by politics and discredited Conspiracy Theorist to those who didn't like him. Many didn't like him: Seb Grummins was not an impressive specimen. Physically or digitally, he knew he was a lucky participant in something larger than him. His handle was Zulu Voodoo, and - to those that mattered - he was strictly part-time.

Sure, Seb had done some things in his time. Flashes of promise, here and there. Infiltrated the odd system, broken an encrypted channel or two. Local trade secrets and mid-level security systems mostly. Nothing like this. Nothing at all like this.

Watchful_Eyes was something else entirely. He was the real deal. A seasoned pro, even by the comparatively high standards of the Granican local scene. And yet so new to it too. In six short months he'd not only arrived; he'd blazed a trail across the New Granican Networks. Insurrectionist com feeds, UEG Interstellar Com-Relays. Government-Level Incryptions, real sensitive stuff. He broke the news that the UEG Taskforce was coming to Granica V _weeks_ before anyone else did. Word on the street was that even Anansi himself was alarmed at his skill; wanted to know who this guy was. Well today, Seb got to meet him.

As his companion slid into the booth, Seb couldn't contain his excitement; could scarcely believe he was meeting the man in person. His pulse was racing.

Watchful_Eyes was a compact man. He was unremarkable, physically; you'd pass him on the street a thousand times and never notice. Yet his every movement was precise, exacting. So much like his online work. He folded his hands neatly across the table and calmly blinked at Seb. Once. True to his name, his gaze missed nothing.

"You're Watchful_Eyes." Seb began, licking his lips so he didn't stammer. _Keep it cool, Seb._

A curt nod answered him. Seb felt a giddy thrill race up his spine. He was sitting on a nerve, his left knee bounced up and down on the ball of his foot in a manic half-jig. He stole a glance over his shoulder, conscious of how suspicious it made him look. Regretted it instantly.

Paranoia gripped him momentarily.

"How can I be sure?"

"You need proof?" Watchful_Eyes leaned forward in his chair, the leather creaking. He spread his hands. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Seb seized up immediately. With a barely suppressed sigh, Watchful_Eyes produced a ChatterPad and slid it onto the table; a Havandi Nine-Sixty; flat-backed with a round edged holo-display. A classic burner. Watchful_Eyes waved a hand over it, and some correspondence - _their_ correspondence - flitted into the air between them.

It was encrypted. Of course it was. Seb knew the cypher, had written it himself. The code was still in place; the letters meaningless without the translating counter-code. DNA linked and haptically translated (a piece of work Seb was particulary proud of).

With another wave of Watchful's finger the gibberish resolved itself. Words slid from meaningless clumps, aligned themselves into tight, comprehensive sentences. Soon, they formed paragraphs.

Line by line, their conversations over the preceding six months resolved themselves for all to see.

"Okay, okay!" Seb hissed, swatting at the words and causing the display to pin-wheel madly, the letters re-jumbling back into free-floating noise. He stole another glance around the room. None of the other patrons; shift workers and down and outs, seemed to care. Heads bowed over their own nutritionally questionable meals, the two men remained unnoticed; all but ignored.

"So we've reached an understanding. Good. Now tell me why I'm here."

Seb slid something across the table, passing it so quickly he might as well have been swiping dust off the table. Watchful_Eyes pocketed it smoothly, entirely unruffled by the exchange. He'd done this before.

"It's the format that makes it awkward. Micro-disc. Ancient junk stuff, but you oughta have a copy. I mean who even uses this kind of trash anymore? I'd have sent it via WayPoint but I couldn't risk it falling into the wrong hands. Hard-copies only for now."

That got his companion's attention.

"A copy." The man's voice was sharp, "You mean there are others?"

"Yeah. I'm not the first to come across it. Came out of one the clean-up crews rotating back out of the Clearance Zone. Some scrap worker looking to offload what he thought was junk. Until somebody actually got some matching hardware; took a look at what was on the feed. At what it proved."

"I've heard the stories. The Nets are all a chatter but it's unverified. Go on."

"Well let me tell you know: this shit? It's the _real deal_. I've been putting feelers out through the markets near the Refugee District, trying to get a sense of what could be behind it. Usual outlets; friendly trawlers, scrap junkies and Slush merchants; that kind of thing. Strictly back channels for now. Can't risk using taking it online or it'll trigger a government snoop alarm. Gotta keep it offline, at least for now."

"Have you sent these copies to anybody else?" Watchful asked. His forceful tone put Seb on edge.

"N-not yet. I sent a general SOS out over the Nets. UEG blanket intercepts are still up. Can't do shit since that A.I. fried the system. We can't get anything out over he network, not unless you've got top level clearance. Only Anansi says he has the means to get it off-world. But that's not all he's promised."

Seb leaned forward, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. Even Watchful needed to lean closer just to hear him. Seb grinned manically, his face an excited whisper.

"Says he can get it to _FERO_."

"Anansi." Watchful nodded quietly, "Nobody's ever met him personally. And I've met just about anyone there is to know on this rock."

Seb kept his voice low, but there was no disguising the thrill in his voice. This was everything he'd ever dreamed about. Taking part in his very own spy drama.

"Gotta take this slow, man. There's stuff going on. Real cloak and dagger, black ops ninja shit. Handles are going dark left and right. Whatever's on that disk, they don't want it getting out."

"ONI?"

"No question, man. Got their thumbprints all over it."

Watchful sat back in the booth, drummed his fingers once on the table, then slapped it again. As if deciding something. With that he stood up. He paused halfway out of the booth, looking down at Seb. There was a determined fierceness in his expression that unsettled Seb.

"One last question, Sebastien Grummins." The use of Seb's full name caused him to sit back with a start, "Anansi. Do you know where to find him?"

Seb shook his head, breathless. He was too shocked to do anything but respond, hands held up in half surrender. _He knew my name. How did he know my name?_

"He's a ghost man. Nobody knows where to find Anansi, 'cept Anansi."

"A pity." Watchful put a hand up to a concealed earpiece. "Take him."

Suddenly the patrons in the diner weren't patrons at all. Neither were the staff. They were all men, large men; with strong hands and cold, unfeeling eyes. An iron grip clamped over Seb's mouth. A nip of an injector bit into his neck; hissed as it depressurized. The diminutive hacker's body fell limp.

Watchful's parting instructions were brief.

"Make it look like an accident."

Watchful_Eyes was already walking up the street before they could reply. His index finger remained pressed to his ear.

"Sir. We have a problem."

"Our hacker friend?"

"Just another proxy, like the others. There's copies of the Cadiz Tape. Somewhere in the Refugee Zone. The _full_ tape. Our only lead is a local hacker, handle by the name of Anansi. Not without talent. Looking to offload to a known Insurrectionist sympathiser off-world."

"We can't risk _Arrowhead_ going public. If Carter gets wind of what we're planning, the entire mission is compromised."

"Understood, Sir. We'll take care of it."

"See to it that you do, Pershing."

Robert Pershing ended the channel immediately, stepping neatly into a waiting car at the end of the street. He nodded at his number two, McBride, who clipped on the indicators and smoothly pulled out into late morning traffic. Just like that, they were gone.

It would be two full days later before the authorities found Sebastien Grummins in his apartment; the victim of a violent burglary turned homicide. The apartment's auto-sensor had failed to trigger. It was the smell of the body that alerted the neighbors. The investigation was brief, but ultimately inconclusive. Just another tragic statistic in a city increasingly beset by a rising crime rate.

As the sun rose over the city of Argjend, touching its domed rooftops and gleaming skyscrapers, its silver-shod buildings glinted like sharpened swords, promising violence. At the city's edge, the bulging refugee zone simmered under the oppressive heat; its ghettos trembling in anticipation.

A building, bubbling storm. One that would soon break.


	2. Chapter 1: A Line of Enquiry

_"Lost Systems._

 _They were a side effect of the Cole Protocol. Thirty years of constant warfare, of scorched earth and glassed cities. A thousand colonies burned in the war; a billion citizens lost forever in clouds of seared soot and crackling ash. One by one, communities went dark, taking themselves off the interstellar grid – some by choice, so many others not. Records were deleted, whole ship logs wiped in the UNSC's bitter retreat into the Inner Colonies. One by one, route by route, the galaxy became a smaller place._

 _But still these wayward colonies endured; lone candles in the great dark._

 _Many were found again, discovered by deep space patrols, tracing their routes backward from out of date star maps and recovered shipping manifests from the hulled vessels that lay adrift in space. Others finds were less deliberate, as traders blindly stumbled across entire colonies, long since forgotten in the maelstrom of the Human-Covenant War. Oftentimes these reunions made for grim discoveries – whole planets blackened; containing little more than ash-caked skeletons and grim memories._

 _More seldom were the happy occasions. Forgotten pockets of civilisation – usually small encampments and isolated research facilities, the occasional thriving city-state. Some re-joined the UNSC gladly. Others resisted, preferring elective isolation to the promise of a united government with those who had seemingly abandoned them, reigniting long dormant tensions from a time when humanity naively believed itself to be the sole power within the galaxy. By 2556 the majority of the Lost Systems were rediscovered – standing as either testament to humanity's enduring resolve… or silent tombs at the edge of human space._

 _The last colony to be marked officially Lost was Granica V, in early 2558. This was, naturally, a clerical error, soon attributed to a temporary power outage of the planet's Waypoint connectivity. A correction was made, the clerical error was expunged, and Granica V was soon struck from the official register._

 _This was to be expected. For Granica was by all accounts a happy community, free from incident."_

Official recollections of the post-war period, 2552-2558 [Published by the Office of Naval Intelligence, 2561

* * *

"Remind me again why we're here, Dr. Pearson?"

"Sight-seeing Chidi. We're expanding our cultural horizons."

"Right."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Probably because I'm not convinced, Doctor."

Rebecca looked up at her companion, wondering how best to change tack. The Spartan accompanying her was dressed in (modified) civilian clothing; a long winter coat, with a white hoodie that contrasted brilliantly with her ebony skin. Long coats and hoodies, those were all the rage with the locals these days. Not that it helped. Even disguised Chidinma stood out like a flamingo in a flock of ducks. Where Rebecca was petite and presentable, Chidinma was tall, unnaturally so, and straight backed. Her shoulders were set with a bearing only a lifetime of military service could instil, and yet she moved with a flowing, delicate grace.

Height and musculature alone weren't what set her apart. It was the contrast of feminine beauty and sculptural strength. Her head was shorn of any hair, and her prominent cheekbones and upturned chin carried a refined elegance. She would break you in half, and look positively regal as she did so.

Less regal was her obvious boredom with their immediate surroundings.

They stood in the cavernous atrium of the Argjend War Museum; a landmark tourist attraction in happier times, now an impressive but sadly forgotten relic of the Great War. Lean economic times had taken their toll on the visitor numbers, but – this early on a Tuesday – it felt as though they were the only ones in the entire building.

Only they weren't. The six men shadowing them gave them a wide berth, but their presence was constant. So too was the faint radio chatter squawking from their ear-pieces, and the heavy swagger of their movements; the kind of exaggerated strut that only men wearing concealed body armour could effect. The UNSC had let one of its Spartans out of captivity for the day, but even then the leash permitted was a short one.

Rebecca ignored them. She had clearance to bring Chidinma out for the day, and that's precisely what she intended on doing. For months Rebecca had clamoured to let the suspended Spartans interact with the wider city, to get a sense of what civilian life was like. To show them what they were protecting. Chidinma was having a hard time adjusting to life after Fireteam Chimera's deactivation. Chimera Three's file was pending formal assessment and evaluation – an assessment that Rebecca herself was responsible for. Until then, Chidinma was effectively in limbo, pending clearance.

"Let's take a walk, Chidi."

Their footfalls echoed against the high stone walls.

There was another the reason why the building felt empty. The building had been cleared in advance of their arrival. Chidinma might be allowed to travel in public areas, but that didn't necessarily mean the public were allowed to be there at the same time. This isolation only heightened the sound of their footsteps as the two women strolled deeper into the museum.

And what a fine museum it was. The atrium fed back into a long chamber – sparsely lit but for the illumination of the individual displays. Suspended from the rafters and dominating the vaulted roof of the long chamber was the landing craft from the UNSC _Mauritius_ ; the settlement craft that had originally discovered Granica V a century prior. The lander was a battered, tired old thing; the paint had long since peeled away; exposing the chrome hull beneath. The vessel itself was a Shoebill 85-E; the same type of ship Chidinma had flown in her abortive escape from Cairo III so many years before. The sight of the ship snapped Chidi out of her ennui. Her eyes never left the landing craft as they passed beneath it.

"It's been well preserved, given how old it is." Rebecca observed.

"Heavy ships to fly. Heavier than a Pelican. Tend to favour one side, to list depending on the throttle and fuel distribution." Chidinma's eyes were analysing the ship, taking in its every detail. This had been the closest she had been to a ship in months. "They recalled the Shoebill for precisely that reason."

"It's been a while since you've flown a ship like that?"

That got a smile out of Chidi; brilliant white teeth, seldom seen.

"You could say that. I was six, or seven - I can't remember. It was a short flight. Clipped a billboard, found ourselves canopy deep in sand."

As they strolled deeper into the museum, the history of the colony gave way to more contemporary attractions; The Great War in particular.

A timeline of the Human-Covenant War glowed to life on a series of wall-mounted plinths as they passed, charting the conflict from the initial contact at Harvest through to the final victory in 2552. Rebecca had escaped the worst of it, sheltered amongst the Inner Colonies. So many others had not been so fortunate.

Next, there came size comparison studies of each of the major Covenant races; full-scale animatronics that growled and tilted their heads menacingly as the tourists passed. Motion sensors, probably, tied to a proximity trigger. That's what her head told her. As she passed a trio of cackling Jackal figures, their energy shields rendered by crude neon discs of moulded plastic, Rebecca's skin crawled. The artists had done their work well – the Jackals' flesh seemed to glisten.

Chidinma for her part eyed them distastefully, but decline to comment. Rebecca noted how the Spartan's hands hand unconsciously balled into fists the moment the mannequins had come within eyeshot. Combat reflex, so deeply ingrained. How quickly the Spartans reverted to a combat footing. Any levity from before was gone now.

"How long are they going to keep following us?" Chidinma asked eventually, nodding toward the agents lurking behind her. She spoke quietly, her chin tucked to her chest. Only her eyes drank in the displays around her. _Like a caged predator, looking for an exit_ , Rebecca thought.

"For as long as it takes for them to decide you're trustworthy." Rebecca said at first, before adding sheepishly, "That _we're_ trustworthy."

Chidinma blinked at that.

"They have you under surveillance too?"

"Can't say they give me quite the same degree of attention, but I'm the official shrink to a team of Spartan pariahs. That makes me persona non grata at best. A borderline accomplice at worst."

It was then that Rebecca's Chatterpad emitted a lilting bleeping warble; the kind the old City AI's used to make. The type of sound nobody on Granica V had heard in months. The two women exchanged a glance and Rebecca quietly pulled the smooth tablet out of her handbag.

There was only one person on the planet who used that particular tone. It was his calling card; the equivalent of a polite knock. He could have jacked her pad, hell, the entire Museum's network, the second he wanted to. Only he never would because, for all his frightful intelligence, he was insufferably polite.

Rebecca keyed the receive button.

"Rashid, you know you're not supposed to be accessing the system network." Rebecca hissed under her breath, careful not to look as though she were speaking into the pad directly. "It's barely functional as it is. They'll string you up if they catch you."

"Relax, I've wired instructions for your guards to hang back and secure all exits. That should give you the run of the floor."

"And you've achieved this _how_?"

"Oh, you know. This and that. A conflicting order here, a countermanding protocol there. They think it's System Control administering the orders, but what they don't know is that Control hasn't been active since The Surge. Their real orders are still being dished out verbally. I wonder how long before one of them realises their acknowledgements are falling on deaf ears."

"Rashid –"

"It's all perfectly innocent I assure you, Dr. Pearson." Rashid moved swiftly on before she could protest further, "Now, as to the reason for my call."

"Go on." Rebecca sighed.

"The Museum you're in. Fascinating place. Early settlement period, almost ninety years old. There's a strange energy reading coming from the display at the far end of the hall. Caught it on one of the routine orbital scans thrown out by the _Carpathia_ three days ago. Would you be so kind as to take a look for me?"

Rebecca and Chidinma exchanged a look. Chidinma just shrugged. True to Rashid's word, their escort had slinked away, retreating the exits on the far end of the hall, hands pressed to their ear-pieces. They were enclosed here: there was nowhere to go beyond the full height glass wall overlooking the freeway beyond, and that was a full thirty foot drop into heavy traffic.

"Fine." Rebecca sighed, "But if they catch you snooping around in the network like this then I don't know you, I've never had you as a patient, and I sure as hell aren't going to be signing any approval papers within the next decade."

"You wound me, Dr. Pearson: I am the very model of caution."

The end of the hall terminated in a grand flight of steps leading up to the War Display's central attraction. Chidinma's sheer height allowed her to take the steps three at a time. Rebecca, for her part, was wheezing by the time she caught up.

Mounted on the dais before them was a first-hand relic of The Great War. The Jiralhanae Assault Bike – designated a _Type 25 Rapid Assault Vehicle_ in the less imaginative prose of the UNSC Infantry Field Manual – was a huge, muscular beast of a machine. Dressed in chrome and flecked with scars; it seemed an ancient, terrible bludgeon of a vehicle; as brutish as those who once drove it. A laughably small velvet roped cordoned the bike away from the edge of the display dais, as though it would somehow stop the fearsome machine from breaking free from its civilised surroundings and rampaging free.

"Impressive machine." Chidinma grunted.

"More than impressive," Rashid's voice piped up. "I think it's the source of our mysterious power reading. Would you mind taking a look?"

Chidinma stepped up to the edge of the display section, marvelling at the war machine. Even at her height, the machine dwarfed her. There was a faint hum. Chidinma didn't need a VISR suite to see that the bike was cordoned off by a web of infrared beams. She could hear the faint humming, a sound entirely lost on Rebecca. The velvet rope was a gentle visual reminder to all non-augmented civilians to kindly keep their hands off the alien war machine. The beams did the actual legwork.

"A moment, if you can Chidi." Rashid had toggled the speaker settings on the ChatterPad remotely, "Disabling security systems… now."

The subsonic humming ceased.

Chidinma stepped up onto the Dais, stepping over the waist high rope (at least on Rebecca) as one would navigate over a small but affectionately obstructive dog. She circled the bike, ignoring the small anxiety attack Rebecca was currently experiencing from the side-lines.

Chidinma came to a stop by the bike's controls. She pressed her palm against the hull.

"It's still warm." she said quietly.

Rebecca for her part hovered back.

"Move closer." Rashid urged, "I can't see from this far back."

Rebecca hissed and almost tripped over the velvet rope, her foot catching it as she stepped up onto the dais. Only a determined hop saved her from an unceremonious face plant onto the timber decking.

When she did join Chidinma, she wordlessly held the pad up for Rashid to see. It was better to mollify the curious Spartan. Either that or he'd go and hack something even more incriminating.

"Better." Rashid's voice sounded tinny from the tiny speaker. "Can't say a 'pad is ideal for this kind of work, but I'll take what I can get. Give me a -"

"Hey!" a voice bellowed out. One of their handlers was fast approaching; one hand on his mic, the other close to his belt. "You're not supposed to be over there!"

The rest of their escort was closing in on them.

Chidinma and Rebecca stepped back down off the dais, looking suitably bashful.

As they were escorted back out into the waiting ground car, Rebecca took a moment to type a furious message into the seemingly inert Chatternet window.

 ** _\\\What were you playing at Rash?_**

For a moment there was a pause.

Then Rashid's reply appeared.

 _ **\\\Secrets. Mysteries. Contingencies.**_

* * *

Rashid set his pad down on the sheets with a frustrated sigh. Another mystery that would have to wait for another day. He had been so close.

Rashid was bored. This was a dangerous thing. Disaster usually followed.

He sat in the hospital bed, listening to call and return beep-sigh of the machines around him. He looked down at his leg. Marvelled at the half of it that was no longer there.

Six months had passed. Since long months of test after test, procedure after invasive procedure. He'd died twice since they pulled him from the dust-choked ruins of New Cadiz. Chidinma had stood vigil over him for three straight days, unwilling to move even as the doctors pushed past to cut the armour from him with an industrial plasma cutter. They had worked around her, reticent to anger his silent guardian.

The combined medical expertise of the entire planet's most talented doctors had been thrown at him. And still he lay here; a broken shell of what he had once been.

The leg was not the full extent of his injuries. The Mantis he and the Rangers had been dashing for had been surrounded by multiple shooters, firing down from an elevated firing position. Hard rounds had chopped down at him as he lay helpless in the scorched sand. Many struck home. He'd never felt the impacts (concussive shock would do that to you, augmented or not) but the shield system – beleaguered, battered; bleating in anguished panic – collapsed. They pulled six bullets from his flesh as the surgeons worked long into the night, fighting to save a man that should have by rights been unkillable.

One round in particular had entered Rashid's left forearm and lodged itself at the rear of his elbow, coming to a rest against the inner skin of the Mjolnir sleeve; neatly severing the ulnar nerve. He waggled his fingers. Rashid had regained motor function, but there was no sensation beyond a clamming tingly in his palm, ring and little finger; pins and needles, a dullened sensation, as though he were wearing an oven mitt made of his own skin. A small set-back, but even now it stymied him: Rashid would hammer the keys on the haptic displays of his holoboard, content that his keystrokes were falling as his brain told them to, only to find he had converted entire swathes of his nuanced input into outraged capitals, ruining the delicate string of coding he had so neatly hoped to thread. The frustration was maddening.

Because he _should_ have healed by now. By rights the doctors should have pieced him back together long ago; a fresh limb in place of the old one; flash-cloned and gene-melded to fit, good as new. Rashid was a Spartan, the pinnacle of genetic material in the mid 26th century. If anything his recovery should have been accelerated. Tissues should have bonded, new nerve endings should sprung to life where they had been so brutally severed.

But instead, complications; low murmurings and shaking heads. Genetic abnormalities, they said. Something in the DNA Code, the genetic sequencing. It was _unique_ , defying medical explanation. Rashid asked for the resources to investigate it himself. Let him solve the puzzle so many others could not. Yet his own medical history was tightly sealed. Even he couldn't access it.

There had been talk of prosthetics. A holding action, until such time that more informed (read: security rated) medical teams could obtain access to Rashid's medical history. The only problem was that the best roboticists on Argjend had lost most of their equipment in the Data-Surge of '57, and were only now in the process of measuring him up for the necessary mechanical augmentations.

As Rashid lay there, stranded on the top floor of the Havenwood Long Term Recovery Unit, the world had not waited for him to recover. Instead, it had wasted little time in picking the rest of Fireteam Chimera apart.

He had been too injured to attend the tribunals for any great duration. They had wheeled him in, of course, once or twice. Just enough to damn his comrades. Made him sit in the chair: a sad, sorry spectacle; a puppet whose strings were pulled by those solely looking to pummel his fellow Spartans as a matter of public record.

Not that those on the commission had needed much in the way of material. The list of transgressions was substantial. Gross insubordination, blatant disregard for chain of command, even conspiracy with an identified rogue operative. They shot men for less.

With Eric AWOL, command had needed an avatar to blame for the disaster in New Cadiz. An entire city lost to terrorist action. A calamity, unprecedented in the post-war period. As the two surviving Spartans from the city's collapse, blame had fallen squarely on Damien and Viktorya. As the ranking Spartan on mission, Damien was sent into effective exile, utterly disgraced. A non-combat detail, Chidinma had told Rashid later; somewhere in one of the more remote regions on the planet. He would never see active duty again.

As for Vee, well, in the tribunal's view she had been the instigator. God only knew under what rock they'd swept her.

That left less than half of Chimera left: one, a battered cripple, the other a lost soul adrift in a society that was still picking up the pieces of Kaizen's rampage.

And Luke. Rashid had watched the mission logs. Watched his bio-coms flat-line the instant the tether had fallen, bringing down the entire city with it. Not even Mjolnir would have held.

Rashid pushed the memories aside, busying himself with his latest distraction.

It was Delveware. Unsynched, naturally; but then you needed a working Waypoint connection to get the full synchronisation, and there was no chance of that happening anytime within the next six months. Still, it was enough to paddle the local nets – and, when the occasion called for it – dive deeper.

The Surge of '57. Rashid still snorted when he heard it. "Data-Surge my left foot," he had grinned when he first heard it, enjoying the discomfort of just about every medical technician within ear-shot. The official line had been something akin to a rogue virus, the work of terrorist insurgents. Those in the know called bullshit. Just about every hacker worth their salt knew that only a UNSC A.I. could effect a system collapse on that scale. What they didn't know was the motive behind it.

Discovering the answer to that particular had become Rashid's newest hobby.

Kaizen was gone. In lock-down or destroyed entirely, Rashid wasn't sure. What he was sure of, however was that getting the answers he sought was going to take a greater degree of skill than would be traditionally required. With the entire planetary network having undergone a system crash with all the endearing subtlety of an MAC Round to the temple, Granica V's networks lay in an isolated, fragile state; the equivalent of a safe mode. This standby state allowed the city to slowly, tentatively function once more as an interfacing entity. By contemporary standards it was all laughably basic; a crude, achingly slow shadow of its former self.

The Spartan Way. A change in situation demanded a change in approach. You couldn't take the shortcuts one normally would with the wider Waypoint networks. No wireless hot-beaming, no ChatterNet signal-splicing or IP cloning. You had to navigate the specific currents and eddies of the standby networks – course along their pathways and choose the right moment to slip from one estuary to the next major data stream. A digital throwback to the far cruder days of the 21st century.

Rashid's program allowed him to do just that. There had been restrictions on how much hardware he had been permitted to handle at first. The menagerie of gifts he'd received from various well-wishers had been scattershot as they were well intentioned; a miniature Mantis robot from the mech jockeys from Stride Team Goliath, a basic entertainment holo-lens from Chidinma, and an archaic e-reader from Rebecca. All had all been disassembled for parts. He had slapped together the various components onto his government issue data-pad, tinkering and toying with the contraption until it resembled a fat tablet of a computer; as spiky and bulky as it was powerful.

Nothing was wasted, however. Every alteration served a purpose, even if the precise purpose for the modification was entirely lost on those who questioned it. These upgrades would become apparent in time. It was six weeks before he was well enough to make the alterations, and a further six before his guards became complacent enough to leave him alone in his room in the ward.

Then there was the matter of bandwidth. His handlers (and Rashid was under no illusions that they were anything less than handlers) had been quick to limit him to a basic data package. Physical connection, carefully monitored. Select government approved channels only. Rashid had been forced to write the wireless code late at night, when they weren't overtly snooping on him.

Within a two hours, he had slipped their digital bonds. Within four hours the entire data stream feeding into the hospital had been repurposed for his own ends (Rashid had taken the liberty of improving several efficiencies within the hospital's otherwise excellent procedures, but declined to make these contributions public). By the following night, Rashid had one of the strongest connections within the city.

Still, he delved carefully. Chidinma and Rebecca became his eyes and ears within the city, bringing him places he could never go. Where they went, he followed; tapping into Chidinma's helmet cam whilst she was on exercises (and cursing his wounds for denying him his freedom), or monitoring the cameras around Rebecca, exploring the city with her as she adjusted to her new life on the planet; just an innocuous red light on mid-range Chatterpad.

When his friends were indisposed, Rashid turned to his other favourite hobby: intelligence gathering. Granica V was a political bonfire waiting to go up in flames. If the tinderbox was lit, knowing anything and everything about the city might mean the difference between life and death.

And so Rashid dedicated his sleepless nights to the mysteries of Granica V. There were more than a few. The museum today had been one of those rare moments when his friends' forays into the city overlapped with the questions that had caught his attention. A Brute Chopper, still active in a Museum. Power source incorrectly shut down, the tech still running, and nobody knew about it. A fascinating display of incompetence. Still, something to log, something to register his memory banks, to recall if ever needed.

The more he delved, the more he learned. Of how the gangs in the refugee zone were growing in size, feeding on the desperation. Of how weapons were being smuggled into the city, slipping through cracks the city's beleaguered police force simply couldn't plug. Of a city inching ever closer to calamity once again.

His fingers froze on the holo-board. A wave of his hand brought him back to the previous page. Another page-shift. He adjusted his goggles, making sure he'd read that last sentence correctly.

A news article. Bungled home invasion, accidental murder. That's what the 'cast said. Only his program was flashing up more than a dozen related links; automated points of enquiry thrown up by in-built subroutines. Murder victim's bank account was minimal. Middle aged software designer, minimal income. Security system for the block had failed. Victim was an identified Delver, name of Seb Grummins; handle of Zulu Voodoo. Mid-level, noted on some of the boards as having some talent at decryption but no rockstar by anyone's metric.

Rashid delved deeper. Another thread, this time on the dark net – "Hackers being silenced – BEWARE THE EYES THAT FOLLOW", it read. Rashid didn't hesitate. His curiosity was well and truly piqued by this point. He joined the thread. dove deep.

The format was old, ancient even. Text only, no visual displays, no embeds or avatars. Just text; ciphers masking the identities of those posting. _Damn that's_ _Old School_ , he grinned.

He read quickly. Skimmed it almost. As one hand pulled the chat log downward, the other ran side searches; verifying leads, exploring lines of further questioning. His heartrate had sped up. Combat-reflex, that old giddy thrill. His muscles unconsciously tensed.

It was probably nothing. Conspiracy theories were dime a dozen on the nets. But this, this was compelling. Hackers disappearing. Auto accidents, street muggings, home invasions. Seven deaths in three months. All noted Delvers, all connected to a single profile – an alias known only as Watchful_Eyes.

Rashid adjusted his goggles, leaning forward in his bed.

Rashid's lips twitched in a smile. For the first time in months, he had something to properly sink his teeth into.

At last, he was no longer bored.


	3. Chapter 2: A Spider in the Market

" _Still no sign of 239?"_

" _We've scanned the entire continent around his drop pod. Full Orbital sweep, supported by drone scans from the_ Carpathia _. Nothing."_

" _Spartan or no Spartan, this is unacceptable. I want him found."_

" _Yes Sir."_

" _I want full surveillance on all known associates. Surviving members of Chimera, that doctor woman they brought with them. Anyone and everyone who's even spoken to the man. If they so much as take a piss, I want to know what colour it was and why."_

" _Yes Sir, understood Sir. There is one other possibility, however."_

" _And that is?"_

" _That this isn't a lone operative. Maybe he's not working alone."_

\- Intercepted audio transcript, source-data unknown.

* * *

Some days later, Rebecca stepped out onto the street, the door to her apartment buzz-locking shut behind her. Rebecca unconsciously touched the Assailant Spray she carried in her handbag, reminding herself that she no longer lived in the cosmopolitan safety of an Inner Colony.

This was not snobbish paranoia on her part. Argjend had become a more dangerous place in the months following the fall of New Cadiz.

The bulging refugee camps had burst their banks at the height of the Surge, flooding the city. Rioting, looting; civil disturbance on a massive scale. Martial law had been declared, and for two restless months every street corner became home to a new checkpoint. Concertina wire and sandbags decorated streets once defined by plush suits and stately cars. The crunch of glass beneath military boots marked the regular passing of patrols. Warthogs presided over major junctions; their rotary cannons not quite pointing at the idling traffic - but not aiming away from them either.

Time passed, order returned. Military uniforms, once an exciting rarity on the entertainment channels, or frenzied shakicam footage on the history channels and twenty four hour news net, became a dreary everyday reality. Commuters working within the city core became used to the checkpoints, to the slow and ponderous process of handing over identification on demand. Their eyes adjusted to the probing glow of a flashlight into the driver's seat at night, or the panning of a sweeper broom beneath their cars. Eventually, the Argjend Police Department took over where the Marines left off; all but unrecognisable beneath the weight of recoloured military surplus inherited from the UNSC's disastrous New Cadiz expedition. A militarised Silver City became the new normal.

With the planet's gradual recovery, things improved, however slightly. The patrols receded into the grey brickwork around them. Now they were largely confined to key installations throughout the city, with only a token presence established around the worst elements of the refugee slums, or guarding key installations within the Administrative Sector. Yet still the tension lingered, simmering away beneath the surface; bubbling ever higher with each inflammatory speech or insensitive comment.

Rebecca kept her head down as she passed a large mural of a jackboot grinding an insurrectionist's head against the pavement. The stark colouration and harsh charcoal tones left little doubt as to where the artwork's sympathies lay. Clean up crews from the city council would have it white-washed by the end of the daily cycle. More paper over the cracks.

The UNSC had provided her with an apartment on the western edge of town, close to where the large walls separated the temporary housing from the comparative civilisation of the city proper. Her new home wasn't much – certainly nothing compared to her old apartment in New Francisco: an old, one bed shoebox in a two story rowhouse, entirely dwarfed by the larger community 'scrapers that crowded up above it, blotting out the sun but for the narrowest slivers of light here and there. These additions to the neighbourhood were new; rivets and solder marks freshly visible from where the auto-manufactories had machine-stamped the building's component pieces together.

The noise of expansion was constant. Not a minute went by when the air wasn't disturbed by the whining keen of an industrial driller, or the stamping rattling echo of a pile-driver from a few blocks over. The entire street reeked of wet paint and burnt wiring. The walls of these new neighbourhoods had a raw cleanliness to them, like pink skin freshly scrubbed, but Rebecca knew it wouldn't be long before they too were tattooed with graffiti. She pulled her coat tighter around her, casting a look over her shoulder as she did so. This close to the Zone, tagging was the least of your concerns.

Rebecca quickened her pace, crossing beneath the chequered shadow of the Western Line. A mag-rail hummed overhead, her skin prickling and necklace tugging as it passed. She ignored the lingering stares of a gang of idle youths on the far side of the street. Not too far from the market now.

Isolated from the wider galaxy, Argjend balanced on a knife's edge. It had been a city designed for a population of twenty million people. In the years that had followed The Great War, this number had swollen to twice that size. The destruction of New Cadiz had been yet another tipping point in a series of trying events. As the only other major city with direct access to an Orbital Tether, the entirety of the planet's extra-terrestrial imports now depended on a single population centre. This dictated rapid expansion, at a pace that even the 26th century's sophisticated auto-manufactories struggled to cope with. In six months, the city footprint had doubled in size; with most of that being raw-boned construction – skeletal and utilitarian, utterly at contrast with the gleaming core of the original city.

With little to distract themselves from the wider nets, the local net had thrived, supplanting the Waypoint community entirely. Information starved, the focus shifted to terrestrial news coverage; local issues, local crimes. The electorate became energised, politicised in a manner it had never been before. Many began to question why it was that Granica V, and in particular its capital of Argjend – itself a major trade hub in this part of the galactic rim - had been left to fend for itself at the edge of the galaxy.

Encased in this echo chamber, the dialogue became angrier, more intimate. Local issues became magnified. Similarly magnified was the discontent. Some took to lurid extremes, public expression as a form of theatre. Graffiti delivered biting social commentary on both sides of the political spectrum; a tit for tat conversation conducted on the walls of rail stations and vacant lots. One particularly troubled man even set himself alight in Victory Square, triggering a riot amongst those with separatist leanings.

Marches and demonstrations gave movement to the marginalised. Protest after counter-protest. The once-beige politics of the Silver City became a vibrant, unsettled kaleidoscope of a city-state at war with itself. More than once the APD's riot squad had been deployed; pumping rounds of tear gas to dispel the howling mob, riot shields thundering as the rioters slammed in from either side. Even now Rebecca passed a street littered with discarded placards. She didn't bother to read what they said, or which cause they proclaimed allegiance to. Doubtless Rashid would fill her in later. Better to keep moving.

Part of the prevailing unease was the continued influx of refugees, pushing the city's infrastructure and emergency services even further beyond their limits. Those who had fled the Human Covenant War had settled and become part of an established demographic since the early 2550's. Marginalised as they had been once, they had settled, eventually forming a middle class. The refugees from the Granican War – freshly exiled, newly introduced – now occupied their place further down the totem pole. Shunted into low-tier housing and high stack ghettos, they were glad to be free of the war, but now found themselves confronted with an entirely new kind of misery. Even in the relative enlightenment of the 26th century, there was a limit to the resources a single colony could provide to meet the needs of an over-spilling refugee sector, many of whom still had no jobs or primary source of income, permanent or otherwise. Desperation rose in tandem with criminality.

The worst was the 'Zone. There were many Sectors within Argjend, many districts – financial, residential, industrial, logistical: every street had a name, every neighbourhood a reputation. But there was only one Zone. As a percentage of the overall city, it was barely a tenth of the footprint. It made up for its size with its notoriety. The 'Zone had originally been ear-marked for temporary set-down refugees fresh from the Human Covenant War, dubbed Habitation Zone 42-AE3-T (Temporary) - only it wasn't. The 'Zone was where the least fortunate had established themselves in the weeks after the New Cadiz conflict broke out. In the months that followed, their haphazard ghetto had sunk its roots deep. Here, the very worst elements of Granica V's underbelly – once spread out over the entirety of the massive capital – found a place to centralise. They thrived.

The APD had ceded control to the various gangs that formed their own law within the 'Zone's tight confines, a nest of favelas hemmed in by the perimeter walls. The Zone was an irritable blister on the fringe of an otherwise compliant city. Like the wider refugee blocks around it, it was walled off from Argjend proper. Originally this had been a temporary measure, erected in order to process the many refugees flooding in from New Cadiz. Over time, the wall spread, became permanent. Ghettoisation was the inevitable result. Now patrols went in with militarised support on standby, or not at all. It was where every riot started, and every dissident whisper began.

And yet there was a glamour to it. The goods were cheap, and the food fresh. Free of the constraints of modern regulations and import tariffs, the place became a haven for those of a bohemian persuasion. There was something to be said about produce naturally grown on a roof-top garden, rather than mass 'factured in a UEG approved facility. The black economy was notorious, certainly; but in time a thriving tourism scene would spring up around this raw and uncut version of society. It was this very appeal that drew Rebecca herself to the markets. That, and her UNSC paycheque had been decidedly clipped following Chimera's formal deactivation.

Rebecca didn't mind. She had survived The Great War, where so many others had not. She had lived rough before. She would survive this.

Whether Granican Society would was an entirely separate matter. Ghettoisation and fringe urban decay were one thing – a new civil war was quite another. The gang violence and the city's increased militarisation wasn't as important as the polarising effect it had on the wider body politic. The pace was glacial, but you could see the change if you knew where to look. Those loyal to the UNSC became isolated from their new, harder-living neighbours; flocking to gated communities and sky-rises within the more affluent centre. Right wing blogs and vid-casters became prevalent across the local net, hiding behind aliases and blaming the city's recent travails exclusively on the refugees and anti-establishment hackers, irrespective of context and bereft of nuance.

The fringe ghettos grew; their roots spreading, interlacing with the more genteel city around them. Areas that were once respectable became less so; a bawdier and roguish version of their former selves. Many became hotbeds of creative counter-culture and chemical fuelled ambivalence to the wider city state; a wide belt of newly constructed, garishly decorated high-rises that served as an uneasy DMZ between the lawless 'Zone and civilised Argjend.

Two cities had formed within what once been a single compliant colony; a contrasting divide between the haves and have-nots. Sitting on top of one another like oil on water.

Above it all, the UNSC _Carpathia_ loomed in geo-synchronous orbit. A faint smudge in the early morning sky, it was the only UNSC vessel that had stayed behind in the aftermath of Orbital Two's collapse. It hung there, a silent reminder to those who would seek to repeat the fate of New Cadiz that the UNSC was here, that they would stay, and that similar uprisings would not be tolerated. It alone kept the city from eating itself alive.

Rebecca saw the market ahead, stopped to let a bus trundle by. The markets changed location daily – partly to rotate and maximise profits along the belt of land insulating the Zone from the wider city, but more to avoid the close scrutiny of APD patrols and contraband inspections. The markets had the freshest produce, at affordable produce, but the black market was rife. Half the fun was finding its location in the first place, but Rebecca had been here a few months now. She knew the schedule, as loose as it was.

Had she not been in such a hurry, she would have noticed the man following her.

* * *

The conversation over the com was brief. When the first voice spoke, the tones were hushed; murmured over the bleating of the early morning traffic. The very same traffic that Rebecca herself had just passed through.

"She's moving."

"Position?"

"Western Market. Just arrived."

"Good. Any sign of our friends?"

"Spotted an official tail. Local APD intelligence. Probably repurposed local police. Got caught in a traffic jam on the corner of 15th and Longview. Sloppy."

"And Becker's men?"

"Nothing so far. And knowing a spook like that, we won't until they make a move."

"Copy. Stay with her. Her safety is paramount."

"Relax, Spartan. Not my first rodeo."

* * *

Market Day. A sea of tents beneath the looming arches of the Western Line. Limp bunting and fairy lights had been strung between the skeletal support columns, lending the atmosphere an excitable, festive air. A canopy of fireflies hung overhead, swaying and jostling whenever one of the trains thrummed overhead. They chimed like lanyards, rattling over the chaotic churn of the crowd below.

The crowds seethed; a feeding frenzy of commerce. You could buy anything you wanted here. Tomatoes from the Western Grasslands, ice boxes of fresh gene-salmon from the ice-waters of northern Tana. Vanity mirrors and all manner of trinkets; old toy soldiers and a cut-price movie chips; a thousand vids on a single chip – all yours for the lowly price of a thousand credits.

Rebecca took her time, picking her way through the din. She had a list of things to get, buried as it was within her bag, but she also had five hours to kill before she was due for her next appointment with Rashid. Market Day was the highlight of her otherwise quiet week – she intended to savour it.

And there was so much to savour. Here, a van steamed with braised meats and bubbling pits of fish and chips; the air alive with cooking meat and salty vinegar.

Not to mention the sheer entertainment of it all. It was the peddlers she loved most of all. They stood out in the wider avenues of the market, their voices and accents as strange and eclectic as their dress sense. All cultures mashed together in a riot of colour and sound.

"Want to buy a necklace, Madame?" A gap-toothed tradesman boomed toothily, holding up a jangling necklace of white gold strips, "Silver Strips for a Silver Lady?"

"Box o' straw'bries; five for five hundred!" a broad-shouldered Irish woman brayed, "Five for five hundred!"

"Sunglasses! Goggle-visors! Augmented reality for realistic prices!" another man called, holding up a pair, his own eyes hidden behind a bulky set of goggles. The scar tissue around his eyes suggested they were a crude necessity for his part. Another struggling vet trying to find his way in the post-war.

And on it went. Rebecca drifted from stall to stall, occasionally taking the time to haggle, but committing to little in the way of actual purchases.

She was looking for something for Chidi and Rashid, as was her custom. Anything to take their minds off of recent events. The two Spartans teased her about it, of course; named her Auntie 'Becca or Mother Christmas or any number of variations on the theme. But still Rebecca insisted. She had few friends on this planet, and was anxious to keep them. Besides, it was her and Eric that had gotten them green-flagged for combat duty. She was the reason they had found themselves on Granica in the first place. She owed them.

For Chidinma it would be flowers. Any would do, though petunias were her favourite. The Spartan billet was every bit as sparse and utilitarian as the people it housed. Chidinma delighted in colourful things; that the rich purple colour was the same as her armour did not strike Rebecca as coincidence.

Rashid was more challenging. He was notoriously difficult to buy for; being content with a working Waypoint connection and a quiet hour to spare. Any books she could think of he had already read, and any other form of entertainment he could access online, through legal or less legal means.

Rebecca had made a point of buying him a Rubix cube once, only for him to smile gratefully, solve it in a matter of seconds, and place it on the shelf of similarly solved puzzles cluttering the sill of his hospital window.

So puzzles and books were out. Gadgets were the only avenue left to her. Old tech, broken tech; discarded equipment and forgotten gewgaws. An ancient VHS player had given him particular delight. He spent the entire day dismantling it with an appropriated UNSC Marine ComTech kit, exposing its guts and inner workings. She had left him there, his bed strewn with all manner of screws and delicate components. When she returned the next day, the machine had been entirely cannibalised; many of the pieces grafted to his computer for stylistic effect.

The tech stalls were on the opposite side of the Market to the food, buried at the very back. She left the rich smell of sizzling bacon and salted meats behind, stepping across the wide avenue that formed the central spine of the market plaza. The crowds thinned slightly here, but still Rebecca had to mince her way through the crowd, rather than shuffle along with its natural flow.

She gasped as a shoulder slammed out of the crowd, spinning her about

Rebecca reached out a hand, instinctively apologising. A firm hand clamped her wrist; pulled her close enough that she could taste the sweat of his skin. She couldn't see his face; shrouded as it was in a heavy hood that obscured him from view. He kept his head bowed, as he whispered in her ear with frenzied rasp:

"There's an item in your bag, a gift for a mutual friend. Don't check it 'til you get home. Don't let them see. Go now, quickly. They're watching."

And just like that, the hand released her. The man was gone, swallowed by the churning crowd.

Rebecca blinked, sweating in panic. She had her Assailant Spray in one hand as she searched for the crowd, looking for a sign of the man, but there was nothing but giddy whoops and excited chattering from the horde of faceless shoppers around her. Noticing the odd looks she was drawing from those close enough to notice, she turned and resumed walking in the direction she'd been going, stuffing the spray back in her bag. As she did so, her knuckles brushed something hard and metal, which had not been there before.

Her heart would not stop hammering. The whole bag felt heavier now. She wanted desperately to open it and check, to see what it was, but she felt that prickling sensation that she hadn't felt since her time in the Laconia Academy. There were eyes on her, eyes skilled enough to stay with her as she navigated the throng.

One detail stayed with her as she pushed her way through the market. A small one, but one that lingered.

The man's inner forearm had a tattoo, black ink over pale white skin. The artwork was superbly rendered; all menacing limbs and predatory white fangs.

A black spider.


	4. Chapter 3: The Ascent

" _An exchange?"_

" _More amateur stuff. They're lucky it's as busy as it is here, or they would have been snatched. I don't think they realise just how dangerous these people really are. I've sent the rest of the team after our mysterious benefactor. I'm still on the Doctor."_

" _Solid copy. Keep me informed."_

" _Signal's kind of scratchy. What's your location?"_

" _The Tana Ice-Floes. Northern Pole."_

" _Jesus, that's in the arsehole of nowhere. What has you out there?"_

" _Retrieving an asset. Stay with Dr. Pearson. We'll be in a position to execute shortly."_

\- mission log, [DATA EXPUNGED\\\ .error\\\\]

* * *

The Tanian Mountains were hazardous, even for an experienced climber.

Jonas Lindberg grunted as he slammed the ice-pick into the mountain side, before reaching his right leg up and testing his new perch with a probing nudge of his boot. He hauled himself upward, digging the knee of his left leg into a natural groove set into the frozen rock-face. The arrest cable clinked in its harness as it tugged tightly against his stomach, tensing as the three climbers below him struggled to keep up. They were tech specialists, trained in repairing UEG com relays in hazardous environments. Each of the team were tough men and women, survivalists used to all manner of extremes, well deserving of respect. But Tana, the most northern city on Granica V was Jonas' home. They were in his arena, one he had mastered long ago.

But Jonas did not grow complacent. He was a quiet man in his thirties; jovial, but softly spoken. Like many in Tana he spoke multiple languages, and was blessed with a gentle manner and an inner mental toughness required of all climbers. The mountain they found themselves on was known as Djur, or The Beast, as his UEG companions had roughly translated. It wasn't the tallest mountain on Granica V, but its conditions made it one of the toughest. To underestimate it was to court disaster.

Jonas led the way for this climbing expedition. The objective – to repair relay towers damaged in the Data Surge six months ago – was simple. The execution was notoriously more difficult. Ferocious crosswinds mean that even Pelican transports couldn't risk the blizzard, and the most recent outage means a team must physically make the ascent. A challenge Jonas himself relished.

The relay disks were at the summit, on an open plateau that was covered in ice-storms for a considerable part of the year. Today was no different.

He paused at his current perch; one hand on the ice-pick implanted into the mountainside, the other fishing out an ice screw from his webbing. He hammered the screw home; twisting it into place and threading the cable in place. He held a hand on the mic bead of his com, bellowing to be heard above the howling gale. His muscles screamed for respite, but he ignored them. Mind over matter.

"Not much farther now. Next point is marked."

Jonas had lived in Tana all his life. He had dealt with the near-constant darkness, the raw, untamed beauty of the northern expanse all his adult life. The hazards here were many and varied: if the polar bears and avalanches were deadly, then the sub-zero temperature was deadlier still.

Today the weather was particularly savage: a howling blizzard had dropped visibility to below three metres. Jonas' beard had frozen to his face, his nose and cheeks were red-raw from where the heat-suit ended and left his skin exposed. The more advanced environment suits offer full visor protection, or thermal-lined balaclavas, but Jonas was a traditionalist; a hardened-climber coming from a tradition of hardened climbers. He did things the old way or not at all.

There were perhaps three climbers in all of Tana capable of matching him on an ascent in these conditions as difficult as today.

None of these men were the man on the cliff-face above him, well out of sight.

Officially, Jonas led the climb. He certainly had set out to do so. Connecting points as he went, threading the arresting ropes through so the others could clip on and follow. This was the thrill he lived for, what he was best at. Then the other man, the taller man, had eclipsed him. It happened so quickly. He appeared, wordlessly took the point gear and moving on ahead, vanishing into the frizzling static of the blizzard above. No support rope, no safety catch but for his two relentless ice picks, hacking up the mountainside as he went. Jonas blinked in astonishment. The man was a newcomer to the team, his accent and mannerisms marked him as being foreign to the primarily Scandinavian community that inhabited Tana. His height too: the Northern Cities built strong men, but none of that size.

Nowhere did.

As an insurance policy, Jonas placed new arresting points of his own, at intervals corresponding with the gaps in the points already set into the mountain. Jonas checked the existing screws; scrutinising the work. Professionally done, though not in a manner Jonas would have chosen. The difference in technique and application was subtle, but Jonas recognised it: the man had formal military training. Jonas shrugged, pushed himself upward and slammed his pick into the next foothold. At least they would make good time.

Something happened above, high up on the mountain. Unexpected and utterly without warning. The entire ice-face exploded downward, descending in a spray of sifting powdered snow sheets tumbling blocks of ice. Whole clumps of it smashed off Jonas' helmet, knocking him senseless. He fell with it, arms free-wheeling as ice-pins and arresting hooks pinged free with ballistic force. He dropped in free fall. They all did. His scream was snatch-stolen by the icy air. His lungs burned with the searing cold.

This was it. This was how he died.

The climbing cable lashed taught, snapping him about. He spun wildly, groping madly for the ice picks that dangled loose from cables affixed to his sleeves. Eventually his knee smashed the mountainside, arresting his spin and sending a white-hot jolt of pain up his leg. Jonas howled.

The winds had picked up, clearing the storm for the briefest of moments overhead. Blinking through burning tears, Jonas forgot the pain in his leg instantly, shocked.

The tall man hung from the mountainside, secured by one ice-pick buried deep in the frozen rock. The entire ice-sheet below him had given way. His other hand clutched the climbing cable, which was otherwise unattached to the mountain proper. His free hand was a balled fist, his bicep bulging as it supported the weight of four grown people.

If the weight burdened the man, Jonas could not tell. His face was hidden by a heavy set of impassive goggles, and his chin was peppered with frozen stubble. The man's jaw was bolted in a tight grimace. The giant stared down at Jonas, waiting patiently. With a start, Jonas remembered himself, pulling his ice-picks back into his grip and securing them into the rock-face with a hastily applied ice-screw.

Jonas looked back up, made eye-contact with his new climbing partner. The tall man nodded once, satisfied, and then resumed his ascent. Soon, he was lost to the blizzard once more.

Jonas opened his com line to the rest of the climb team.

"All okay?!"

A chorus of breathless affirmatives answered him. One man was murmuring a prayer of thanks, over and over. Jonas closed his eyes and sighed, pulse thundering in his ears as relief and adrenaline rushed through his veins.

Jonas Lindberg would lead a long and eventful life. He would climb many mountains, accomplish many more feats the average human being would be envious of. In spite of all this, he would never forget that day - when one man saved four others, and never even stopped for thanks.

That the man had vanished when they reached the peak, absent but for a wide patch of melted snow and a single rope cinched tightly around a boulder, was a mystery that Jonas Lindberg would never solve.

* * *

Ten minutes earlier, Damien reached the final summit. He sliced his pick into the top lip of rock, pulling his chin up to face the plateau ahead of him.

Facing him were pair of deep crimson boots. Armoured, Mjolnir Gen 2, Soldier Pattern. Attached to these boots were a large combat machete, and above them again a set of armoured kneepads, which led up into an altogether intimidating figure he knew all to well. Damien looked up and did his best to mask his shock.

"451." Eric's amplified voice boomed out over the gale, expression impassive as ever behind the golden slid of his visor. He bent down and offered a hand. Damien took it, and was swung up to his feet as Eric effortlessly hauled him up and over onto the plateau.

Behind Eric nestled a massive dropship; engines keening in standby mode as it was buffeted by the relentless gale, its running lights piercing through the churning snowstorm. The ship was larger than a standard Pelican; the slight bulge at the rear of its fuselage identified it as a D81 Long Range Transport; an older cousin of the Pelican, but one that was, crucially, Slipspace enabled. The weight of its landing gear had dislodged part of the cliff-face. Its attitude adjustment jets pulsed constantly, making micro-adjustments to hold the ship in place. Only a highly skilled or downright insane pilot would attempt to land a bird in these conditions.

Beyond the dropship lay the interstellar com relays, what had been Damien's original destination. Something told him that things had changed.

"Spartan 239." Damien nodded in reply. "Wasn't quite expecting to see you here, Sir."

"I reserve the right to be surprising. Your arm is bleeding."

Damien looked down, at where the arrest cable had sliced deep into his jacket, slicing into the skin. He hadn't noticed.

"I'm still combat effective, Sir."

"Glad to hear it; it's time you went back to work." Eric pointed at a boulder behind him. "Arrest point over here."

Damien tied off his gear, then nodded to the rope snaking over the cliff side. He pointed toward it with a thumb.

"What about the others?"

"Leave your gear and supplies here, you won't need them. We've left instructions with the ground team that you're being reassigned. They'll be informed once the relay is back online."

"You mean I'm too qualified for maintenance duty?"

"Something like that." Eric nodded toward the drop-ship "C'mon. Storm's clearing soon, and we need to be gone."

"Where are we going?" Damien asked as the ramp yawned shut behind them.

"We've unfinished business in Argjend. They say Fireteam Chimera's out of commission." Eric didn't look back as he strode ahead, "I beg to differ."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, and considerably warmer, Damien found himself in the cramped confines of a briefing room. The D81 was an older vessel, favoured by colonials and transport types, but there was nothing out of date with this ship.

It had been heavily modified. The rear troop compartments were gone, replaced instead with two opposing wall-racks of weapons; carrying everything from standard MA5 assault rifles to experimental net launchers and guns Damien had never even seen before. There was a large T-shaped machine caged to the ceiling of the rear hold, and both Spartans had to duck beneath it as they moved deeper into the ship. Damien didn't get a good look at it, but then everything was moving so quickly he didn't stop to inspect it. There would be time for that later.

The central chamber was as modified as the rest of the craft. Commanding the centre of the room was a briefing console. Bolted onto the far end of the chamber was an Armour Assist Unit, used for outfitting Spartans.

Eric reached up and removed his helmet, his ruined face made all the more disconcerting by the slight smile he wore on his lips. Damien had never seen the older Spartan excited before, and quickly decided that he never wanted to again.

"The mission clock is running; has been since we touched down. So I'll be brief."

Two men entered the chamber, stepping out from the cockpit section.

"First, introductions," Eric began. "This is Perry, He owns the ship. Well, the ONI own the ship, but he's been kind enough to fly it for us for the duration of our stay here on Granica."

The pilot was a slim man, dwarfed by Damien in size, but then Damien was used to that. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee and his lined eyes pinched with crows feet whenever he smiled. For all his friendly demeanour, there was something in his eyes. Experience.

"Call me Warmonger." Perry extended his hand, coughed awkwardly, "Or Dave. Dave will do. I'm retired; technically a contractor."

"Damien." They shook hands, "They let contractors join ops like this?"

"Hey, my wife thinks I run a transport business." Perry offered a conspiratorial smile, "You keep my secret, I'll keep yours." Perry turned to Eric, "We've got a course set in to join one of the standard shipping lanes entering above Argjend. Auto-pilot has us for most of the way, but there's going to be a slight delay. Lot of ships looking to make it groundside; only one Starport to go through."

Perry paused, noticing Damien's arm.

"Uh... you _do_ know your arm is bleeding, right?"

"Yeah. So people keep telling me."

Eric gestured to the next man in line.

"You already known Engineer Park. He's on loan from Laconia, and will be providing remote systems support when you're groundside. Your new armour set's been outfitted with some notable improvements. He'll brief you more later."

"Good to see you again, Damien." Park grinned toothily. For once, the portly engineer wasn't hidden behind a dust-mask. "We've got a few more toys for you to try out this time."

"Looking forward to it, Park."

They bumped knuckles. Park winced and flapped his hand at the Spartan's strength.

"Thank you, Gentleman. We're in a liquid situation, so allow me to get 451 up to speed." Eric nodded at them.

Taking their cue, the two men scarpered back up to the front of the ship.

When they were gone, Eric nodded and looked back at Damien.

"There's a ground team in play who you'll meet in due course. But for now it's sufficient to say that you'll be providing tactical support in the event the situation escalates."

"Are we expecting it to escalate?"

"Without question." Eric grimaced. "It's been slowly building to this point over the past six months. Step over here a moment."

The briefing console showed a variety of combat footage, most of it taken from Chimera helmet cams during the Battle for New Cadiz. Damien recognised some scenes directly fed from his own helmet capture; then saw his armoured reflection relayed back via Rashid's cam-feed. His armour had been so clean and pristine then, before the fighting really heated up. Before the whole damn city came down.

The scene was shortly after landfall. Chimera had intercepted a beleaguered UNSC convoy, comprised of combined Army Ranger and local colonial elements. Both Rashid and Damien were poring over the assembled bodies of military aged males, all of whom showed signs of surgical scarring at the rear of their skulls.

"Do you remember these men?" Eric asked.

"Of course. Rash picked up on it. Infrared tattoos on their wrists, neural laces had been removed. Special forces, likely some kind of off-books black ops unit. I tried to mention them at the formal enquiry, asked them to review the footage, but the hearings wouldn't condone it. Said it 'detracted from the wider question of responsibility.'"

That prompted a cynical snort from Eric.

"And isn't that convenient? Here's what we know so far."

Eric started interacting with the display, his inputs nimble and accurate even spite of his massive gauntlets.

"Approximately eighteen months ago, a hidden ONI Research Facility was raided by an unknown force identified as being explicitly non-Covenant."

The footage snapped to a ruined lab; a chaotic scene. There was no audio feed, and for that Damien was grateful. The air was choked with twisting smoke and small fires. Alert signals pulsed an angry strobe in the gloom. Scientists fled to and fro, in abject panic. They stooped over com channels, crying for help. Then further distortions as explosions split the air. A door burst inward; flash bangs and concussion grenades most likely. Sweeping through the twisting after-smoke was the unmistakable silhouette of a UNSC kill-team. No uniforms or insignia, but the drill work was unmistakable, text book. Were they not so intent on mowing down civilians, Damien would have been impressed.

"The location was a Tier One Facility, well protected, closely guarded. Even now, I can't disclose its name or location without a maximum level clearance."

One tall figure stepped through the twisting ruin of the doorway, dressed in a familiar black coat. A panicking scientist fled into the frame, hands held in surrender, pleading. With a smooth efficiency the man pulled a service pistol and drilled him twice in the centre mass, before stepping forward and planting a finishing round in his skull. He spared a glance up at the camera.

Eric stabbed the pause button, capturing the man's face right as Damien's blood went cold.

"Look familiar?"

Damien could only nod, jaw clenched.

Of course he did. Every member of Chimera had encountered him at some point. He had pulled Damien screaming into a transport right as Hibernia burned from Covenant orbital bombardment. He had watched Luke undergo test after test, trapped in a lab like a hapless rat. Stood over Chidinma and Rashid as they recovered in hospital after their abortive flight from Cairo III. Had executed Viktorya's father with the same cold efficiency shown in the video.

Damien found his hand drifting toward the set of dog tags that were around his neck.

Eric was still talking.

"ONI have been monitoring the interrogation footage taken from interviews with the surviving Insurrectionists. Reports are scattered, but many point to Al'Hajar having an advisor, a man by the name of Conrad Hedeker."

"So he has a name." Damien's eyes narrowed.

"He does, but from what we can tell Conrad Hedeker doesn't exist. Conrad Hedeker has never existed. I've been around a long time, but I've only ever heard of this guy in stories. And intelligence is a small community, believe me. So I did some more digging."

The shaky footage of the ruined lab disappeared, replaced by a personnel report and a mugshot. He was younger then, as Damien remembered. Still the man's face was largely featureless, his eyes, nose and ears having all manner of faint surgical scarring. Or, more correctly: faces. A variety of pictures of different identities; his facial hair would shift, or his lips would alter. The footage sped up, year after year, mugshot after mugshot. Over the accelerated time lapse, an entire appearance reformed itself again and again, making and remaking itself with each adopted identity. It was only the eyes that remained constant – an unblinking, penetrating stare.

A handful of project names flashed up beneath his picture; associated projects, most likely. Damien didn't recognise any of the: ORION, TREBUCHET, PINNACLE, and a dozen others besides. ARROWHEAD was the most recent project name on the list. A list of fourteen languages showed up, everything from Pashtun to Sangheili, from Chinese to Kig'Yar trade tongues. No further details were available. The rest was bar after black bar of redaction, record expunged, EYES ONLY.

"Meet Elias Becker. Decorated service record, or at least from what I can infer from the punctuation marks they left in. You think our records are classified? This piece of work has been in operation for some sixty years, and that's only what I can infer from the dates associated with those code names."

"Even discounting cryo-statis and relativity, this guy's gotta be a relic by this point."

"A _dangerous_ relic. Becker is the spook's spook: the boogie man they tell the other boogie men stories about, to make sure they go to bed on time, eat their vegetables. He doesn't have a record because he's never been just _one_ person. He's done it all. Kidnappings, targeted assassinations; everything from top level wet-work to high end genetic research, the Spartan programs."

"Reassuring."

"My entire assignment on Laconia was a deep cover plant. Becker went off the reservation, and it's my job - _our_ job - to bring him in. I've been tracking him ever since. It's a clean capture or kill mandate, open ended. I've been given a zero sum budget."

"ONI must really want this guy silenced."

"He's had a hand in nearly every major project since the Human-Covenant War started. Even if he hadn't misappropriated ONI assets, there's no telling what manner of secrets he might reveal."

"I can understand their concern."

"It's more than concern. ONI are terrified. He gave us the slip in New Cadiz, and destroyed an entire city to do so. There's no telling what else he'll do to avoid being apprehended."

"So the last project name on the list, ARROWHEAD." Damien asked. "That have any connection to what Becker's doing now?"

Eric froze at that, momentarily. Had he been wearing his helmet, Damien wouldn't have caught it. There was something in the eyes though, a sliver of… worry? An unfamiliar knot of anxiety twisted in Damien's stomach. If something was enough to have a stone-killer like Eric spooked, Damien didn't even _want_ to know what it was.

"That's need to know." Eric said eventually, "For now it's sufficient to say Becker has an agenda, and something or _someone_ on Granica V is furthering that agenda."

The overview sifted to show Argjend. A Silver City with a bare-boned and decayed outer half.

"All we know is that he's here. We can't move in. Not directly. If we startle this guy, he'll go to ground, and knowing his background we'll never find him again."

"So what's the call?"

"Groundside intelligence reports a slew of disappearances across the city. Information brokers, low level mostly, but all signs are pointing to a systematic purge. Whoever's behind it, they're not leaving many traces."

"You think he's cleaning house?"

"I think something has left Becker exposed, and he wants to make damn sure that whatever loose end is out there gets tied up."

Damien nodded. Then a question formed on his lips, one that had plaguing him ever since they had stripped him of his combat certification.

"So why pull the disappearing act six months ago? Why not go through official channels?"

"Because the section I work for? We don't exist, not officially. As I said, the mission clock we started in orbit over New Cadiz is still running. Condition Zero remains in effect. Whatever we do, it hinges on plausible deniability. We get caught, captured, killed? That's on us."

"That doesn't sound encouraging."

"That's the job, Spartan. Always has been."

"So what about the others? Why not Viktorya? She's got a score to settle, and has the highest combat rating out of any of us."

"Her whereabouts are unknown. The other members of Chimera are either under close surveillance or combat ineffective."

"Rash still hasn't recovered?"

"No, and nobody's sure why." Eric replied, clearly troubled, "Genetically he was a perfect fit for the Spartan program."

"So it's just you and me then. Two man op."

"Just you and me, 451."

Eric did quite a surprising thing then. He stood back and looked Damien square in the eye. Then he saluted.

"Welcome to Section Zero."


	5. Chapter 4: Status Green

" _Commissioner._

 _You had asked me for a review of all potential agitators operating within the capital. This had been within the context of the quarterly security review, and more particularly in light of Administrator Jennings' request for an overhaul in the manner in which the APD interacted with the wider public._

 _In the course of this study, citations are supplied within the foot notes and video links provided (particular reference should be made to my previous report;_ Outlook 2558: Policing in a Post-Cadiz World _). It is sufficient to say for now, however, that there are a number of contributing factors which are beyond the immediate control of the APD: namely mass immigration, a shortage of jobs and satisfactory housing conditions. That the position in Habitation Zone 42-AER-T has been allowed to develop into as tenuous a situation as it has is regrettable, but ultimately unavoidable. Our system was coping with a mass influx of undocumented people from a volatile war zone, many of whom were suspected to be former combatants. Harsh measures were necessary, including protective quarantine from the city proper. Though regrettable, ghettoisation and the accompanying anti-social behaviour that comes with it was inevitable. The questions asked of us as a society are large ones, beyond the scope of this report. I will leave it to more qualified minds to answer them._

 _The single largest identified gang is the_ Argjend Assembly _, colloquially referred to as the '_ 42 Gang _' or '_ Zoners _'. Primarily comprised of foot soldiers believe to have Insurrectionist sympathies, they are in fact largely apolitical, and mainly exist to further their own ends. Operations include a substantial narcotics and smuggling operation, with multiple instances of having penetrated Starport Security (see situation reports CRI 203-215, as appended). We have yet to determine who their leader is, though the degree of organisation, sophistication and influence beyond their immediate territorial confines points to more rooted forms of organised crime, potentially off-world._

 _You had asked about the so-called 'Hacker Slasher', referring to the spate of disappearances affecting seemingly unconnected information brokers within the city. From our initial investigation, and having due regard to the analysis generously provided by our counterparts in UNSC intelligence, we do not believe this to be connected with the Argjend Assembly in any meaningful way, and would consider any such suggested link to be wholly the product of active imaginations within the department. Further theories to this effect should be discouraged, and I recommend that anyone voicing such opinions be reported to Internal Affairs for immediate productivity assessment…"_

\- internal memo, sourced from the Argjend Police Department, retrieved 2559.

* * *

Rebecca threw her bag on the bed, breathless and sweating after her encounter in the market. She'd discarded her coat and paced up and down the length of the room, running her hands through her hair. She was still shaking.

There were no external windows to her apartment, but she turned and triple checked the door was locked. She had taken a grav-train back to the station half a block south of her apartment, and hurried from there. In truth it would have been more direct to go on foot, but something compelled her to change her routine. That prickling sensation along the back of her neck never left her.

The room was a modest affair. A queen size bed; an island unit functioned as both a cooker and a living space, depending on where items were placed. One wall was entirely bare, and served as a display space for her Waypoint connection. There was little else to speak of – she was a stranger to this city, and did not intend on acquainting herself with it further.

Her bag lay on the bed, lurking with all the pregnant menace of a land mine.

Rebecca shook herself and crossed the room. She pulled the bag open. Sitting in it was a boxy device of some sort. She pulled it out.

"What the hell…" she breathed.

It was circular in shape; black plastic, well-worn and cross-hatched with faint scratches. An ugly dent marred its otherwise smooth shape. Rebecca turned it over in her hands, and saw a button on the side. She pushed it.

A small disc popped out, barely larger than her thumb. She held it up in the light, marvelling as the light bounced off it; oily purples and greens.

Who even _used_ discs anymore? She slipped the disc back in. It whirred inside. Abruptly, a small lens popped up out of the top of the machine; the light nearly blinding her. She turned it to face away from her. The tech was ancient, and the projector was all light but no image. What it did show was jumpy, distorted beyond recognition. She sighed, disappointed.

After all that, the focusing lens was damaged. It was a dud.

It was time for another approach.

"Hestia, activate." Rebecca said aloud.

"Good morning Ms. Pearson," the smooth voice of the apartment's wafted from all corners of the room. Bereft of intelligence, but unfailingly enthusiastic and maternal. "How can we be of assistance today?"

"Can you interface with this device?" Rebecca asked. "Project it to the wall display?"

There was a warbling blurt of negativity.

"Process invalid, command order not recognised. Would you like to file an error report?"

Rebecca sighed. Crazed A.I. or not, she would have given her arm for Kaizen right about now.

She reached for datapad, tapped the Chatter icon. Option two.

Rashid seemingly never slept. He answered after two short bleats.

"Dr. Pearson? I'm not expecting you for another two hours; is everything alright?"

"Yeah. Well, no. I –"

"Wait." Rashid cut her off. "Okay, the line's secure. Go on."

Rebecca's summary was breathless, rushed. Frustrated too.

"Ran into a man at the market. Passed me something, said it was for a mutual friend. Some kind of disc player – projector lens isn't working, and my apartment A.I. isn't worth a damn."

"We are regret you are dissatisfied with our performance," Hestia apologised in a tone that was anything but sorry, "We here at –"

"Hestia, _mute_." Rebecca snarled, then sighed. "Sorry, Rash, where was I?"

"You were having problems with the device. Show me."

"Right. Give me a sec."

Rebecca crossed to the counter, settling her pad against the wall. She switched the com feed over to video display and angled the pad so that it focused on the battered old disc reader. Rebecca could see the focusing lens on her pad twitch and contract as Rashid took control of the device remotely, getting a better view.

"Projection system. Got to be as old as the colony itself; even older."

"Can you fix it?"

"I'd need to take a look at it in person. Can you bring it with you?"

Rebecca was already pulling on her jacket.

"Of course, I'm leaving now."

"See you in a bit."

The com line keyed offline. She stabbed the door button with an impatient finger, looking down to make sure she had everything; her bag, the data pad, the mysterious projector.

It happened so fast, Rebecca didn't know react until it was too late. She only looked up as the men burst into the room. Big men, lots of them. A heavy hand clamped over her mouth. She screamed, though the sound was muffled by a thick cloth. One that stank of chemicals. She kicked, she thrashed; arms flailing, fingers clawing.

Strong, tattooed arms restrained her.

Then darkness.

* * *

The restraint clamps popped open, releasing him.

Damien stepped down from the stirrups of the Armour Assistant, metal cleats thumping against the steel deck. The new armour felt strange. Its contours were unfamiliar, the wrist guards and weight distribution alien. It would take some time to adjust.

"Helljumper Pattern, custom import from CST." Park was saying. "Part of an on-going research program. Perks of being with ONI - this is bleeding edge tech, man. Real cool stuff. I've programmed it to be a close to your old armour as possible. There's a few improvements you're going to have to adjust to, so listen up."

Damien was bareheaded above the neck seal. Some things remained familiar. The armour was a dark blue, chased with white stripes. Emblazoned across his chest was the old Fireteam Chimera logo: snarling teeth and grasping claws; a feral, mongrel beast. Beneath that, his service tag; 451, rendered in bold type-face.

Damien had shaved, though his hair was still a few inches longer than regulation permitted. Park ran a scanning wand over him, nodding as he ran a final systems check. Eric and Perry were front side in the cockpit, focusing on their approach to Argjend's Starport.

"VISR system, shield deflector suite; that's all standard. It's the thruster system that's been tweaked. You'll still need a re-entry pack to break a deadfall from orbit, but you'll be faster, more agile than you were before: you're looking at a combat efficiency boost of about thirty percent. Try not to run before you can walk."

Park handed Damien the helmet. It was modelled on the classic ODST design, with minor aesthetic tweaks here and there; primarily around the helmet fins. Like his old helmet, the visor was an opal blue. Damien turned it over in his hands, admiring the spotless finish. He thought of how his old armour had ended – scorched black, entirely peeled of paint and battered beyond recognition.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Park."

"The improvements are being rolled out across the entire service line, but the local teams haven't been supplied yet. If things kick off groundside, you'll have an edge over the competition."

"So I'll be faster, but they'll have numbers. Good to know."

"Exactly. Now hold still, we're almost done."

Damien settled the helmet over his head. There was a snap-hiss as the suit pressurised. The HUD blinked to life, the shield system rumbling to life with an eletro-static crackle. Park ran the wand over the side of Damien's helmet.

"Shield system, online. Radar suite, configured and registering IFF signatures. VISR operational. Right, you're Status Green, Spartan. Any questions?"

Damien flexed his gauntleted hands, forming fists. The memetic fibres within the under-suit hardened in response, amplifying his already shocking strength. The strength of a god.

"Yeah. Just one."

Damien turned and looked down at Park; an impassive machine, built for war.

"When do I start?"


	6. Chapter 5: Kidnapped

_"We don't go into the 'Zone, not in a standard patrol car. Nobody does."_

 _"And why is that?"_

 _"You've seen the footage, I don't need to tell you what they did the last time a unit found itself isolated in 'Zoner territory. What they did to their faces. Christ, I still picture it, even just talkin' about it."_

 _"So when do you go in?"_

 _"A Code 4210; requires consent from both the Administrator and the Commissioner both. Armoured assault vans, hard tops, automatic weapons. You roll deep, or not at all."_

 _"Does that seem heavy handed to you?"_

 _"Heavy handed? Heh, listen Lady: you don't bring a police unit to the 'Zone, man. You bring a goddam army. Because one thing's for sure: if you don't bring an army to them… they sure as hell bring an army to you."_

\- excerpt from interview with the Argjend Times, March 3rd, 2558

* * *

Patience was the mark of a great operator. Patience and discipline.

It came with the territory. Elias Becker had performed many roles in his long and storied career, learned many disciplines. He had been, in various forms, disguises and identities; an analyst, a scientist, a soldier. He had conducted test after test as part of the Arrowhead project, watching time and time again as test subjects washed out; the candidates failing to show the tangible results his superiors so fiercely craved. Eventually his patience had paid off. And they had called him a monster, decried his success. His superiors be damned, he did what was asked of him. Did what was necessary, what _would_ be necessary in the years ahead.

Becker stood on a catwalk overlooking the entire city. Traxus Towers were one of the largest and most prominent super 'scrapers within Victory Plaza. Twin edifices of silver chased with bronze. The observation deck extending between the towers was without equal.

Becker closed his eyes. Another memory, this time acting as a sniper on the frozen tundra of Caspian Nova. An entire week waiting for his target to arrive, stuck as he had been up on an icy perch. No spotter, no support; no company of any kind but his own mind. The waiting, that had taken discipline. To sit and wait, his eye unmoving from the scope for hours at a time. And then the crack of the rifle shot, red blood on white snow. Another mission accomplished.

Different disciplines, wildly different situations, but the same two traits, time and time again.

Right now his patience served him in particular. Loose ends were a risk he could not, would not tolerate. His agents and proxies were everywhere, entrenched within every facet of Granican society. He had set the ground work for years, biding his time. Patience and discipline.

A throat cleared itself behind him. Becker opened his eyes. It was Pershing, his most trusted lieutenant. Compact, no-nonsense. He was not the tallest of his men, nor the strongest. But he was the most diligent, the most efficient. He would have a bright future as a field operative.

"Report."

"We have a lead on that hacker that's been threatening us, Anansi. Our observers reported he made contact with Rebecca Pearson in one of the western markets. A direct approach, unusually bold by his standards. We lost Anasi, but one of our contractor teams took the liberty of intercepting Dr. Pearson at her home."

"Was this sanctioned?" Becker asked sharply.

"No, Sir." Pershing shook his head, "Our contractor acted independently. Ordinarily I would have dealt with their recklessness directly, but they've reported that the doctor was in possession of sensitive information."

"Anansi's ace in the hole?"

"Unknown, Sir. But we can't rule out the possibility."

"Very well. Retrieve the data. See what your people can extract from Dr. Pearson. I want this hacker found."

"And if the APD intervenes when she's reported missing?"

"They won't. I'll see to that. Keep me advised of any developments."

"Sir. Yes Sir." Pershing snapped a salute and marched toward the elevator.

Alone once more, Becker sighed. Another loose end, soon to be tied up.

Absently, he fished a hand into his pocket and produced a single data-chip. It glinted in the afternoon sunlight. The sight of it brought a smile to his face.

It was almost time for the next step.

* * *

By the time Rebecca came to, her worst fears were realised. They had taken her to the 'Zone.

The building they hurried through was just another squalid living space in the heart of one of the low-rise warrens. Room after room of countless families, squatters, no-hopers and junkies. They all fled, like darkness from a light switch, as the men marched through, dragging their captive with them. Nobody messed with them. Anybody Rebecca made eye contact with averted their gaze. They had seen this too many times before.

There were no Good Samaritans or heroes in the 'Zone. Only survivors.

A door slammed open. Rebecca was half dropped, half thrown onto a filthy mattress in a dark corner. She crawled into a ball, quaking with terror. Her head still thumped from the chemicals they had used to knock her out.

Her abductors were gangers. Rough-hewn street-muscle. Cyrillic tattoos proclaimed allegiance to the Argjend Assembly. Words like "Zone" and "Love" were inked on their knuckles, and they all wore the ragged uniform of the 'Zone: dark hoodies, and baggy grey or black overalls, mixed with the occasional leather jacket or looted UNSC combat webbing here and there. More than a few of them looked as though they were combat veterans; particularly one of the smaller member of the crew; a small Asian woman, whose compact muscle and hard-as-nails demeanour belied her size.

Rebecca knew the story well, had seen it too many times as a psychological profiler for the UNSC. Former service personnel, who had found the post-war too much of an adjustment beyond the walls of a barracks or confines of a fox hole. Unable to function as part of society, they became outcasts. Turned to this feral existence instead.

The men paced up and down, leering at her. Like tigers in a cage. Many started lounging in chairs, smoking and drinking.

The room was a cesspit. A series of stolen cargo pallets formed a crude central table. Atop it, machine pistols and snub-nosed firearms – civilian and military issue alike. The floor was littered with torn MRE wrappers and discarded tin cans from aid packages. Beer bottles and drug injectors too. The men and women around her were well fed, in stark contrast to some of the miserable wretches they had passed outside. They had status, power.

Yet there was shouting. All manner of languages, none of them Rebecca could identify – Slavic, of some description. Some Japanese and some French too. The group was having a heated disagreement. Evidently they had found her credentials, realised her background. It had them rattled. That gave her hope. A group this disorganised, could be caught off balance. They could be dangerously unpredictable too.

"Everyone shut up." a sour voice said simply.

Evidently they all spoke English and followed orders. Everybody stopped dead in their tracks.

The newcomer was a more senior member of the pack. He stood a head taller than the rest of the goons. In his hands was the dented package. He was no hood rat either. While not a uniform, his clothing had a more militaristic appearance to it: service boots, well-polished. He had the hooded eyes of Koslovic hard-liner, and the shaven scalp to match. A single tear drop tattoo decorated the flesh beneath his left eye. An enforcer then, and senior.

The man set a chair on the ground before Rebecca. He sat in it. He glowered at her for a moment, then tossed her the package.

"The man who gave this to you. Where is he?" he asked Rebecca. Definitely Russian.

It took Rebecca a moment to find her voice, managing only a nervous squawk. She found it again when he kicked a discarded can of food at her, snarling.

"I… I don't know!" Rebecca shook her head, "I never got a good look at his face. He had a tattoo. On his arm."

"He is Anansi. The Spider. You think _this_ is information? _This_ we know. Who he is, what he looks like? His face, his age. You will tell us. Or we will _make_ you tell us."

"If I knew I'd tell you!"

"She _lies_." The Russian spat. He turned to his companion, "Irvine. Boil the kettle."

The quiet man who had entered the room with the Russian nodded. He was a scruffy man, with a scraggly beard and bored, detached demeanour.

Atop one of the pallets was a portable convention block taken from a UNSC Marine Field Survival Kit. Rebecca only recognised it because she'd seen them time and time again, from her own time in evac shelters during the war. The heating block that formed a central part of the kit was a featureless slab of metal; that used convection to heat everything from ready-cooked meals to thermos.

Or, in this case, an antique kettle. A dented, tired old thing; the type you'd find on a dusty shelf in any old curio shop. It sloshed heavily as Irvine set it down. He keyed the activation stud on the side of the block heater. Slowly, the top surface of the block glowed an angry amber.

The kettle started gurgling.

"Now I will ask again." The Koslovic was right in her face now, stinking her breath making her gag, "Where is the Spider?"

"I don't know!" Rebecca cried.

"You think this is a _joke_?" there was a worrying desperation in the Russian's voice, "That we will not hurt you because you are a _woman_?"

Tufts of curling steam were beginning to rise from the neck of the kettle. A low wheezing filled the air, building steadily.

"I've already told you what I know!" Rebecca shrieked at him, "I don't _know_ why he chose me, I don't _know_ the Spider!"

The kettle was whistling now, more insistent. The Russian slapped her across the face. Hard. Fire exploded across her cheek.

"Lying bitch! Tell us where he is!"

Rebecca was gibbering incoherently by this point.

The kettle shrieked, at fever pitch. The Russian turned and gave a nod to Irvine.

"Do it."

Irvine nodded once, without emotion.

Then smashed the boiling kettle into the Russian's face.

The men around him roared in outrage, exploding out their chairs. Just as matter of fact, Irvine had produced a service pistol, emptying it into the next man closest to him. Suddenly there were guns in everybody's hands. Rebecca shrieked and jammed her fingers in her ears. Gunfire split the air, deafening in the confined space. Six bodies hit the floor.

Rebecca opened her eyes. Gun smoke threaded the air. There was shell-casings all over the floor, blood all over the walls.

Only Irvine and the Asian woman remained standing. The small woman panned her machine pistol over the fallen bodies, as crisp and professional as any UNSC fireteam Rebecca had ever seen.

The two exchanged a nod, unscathed.

"Clear." The woman reported, moving to police some of the discarded guns. She worked smoothly, ejecting spent magazines from some of the fallen gangsters; shoving the spare ones in her many pockets. She checked pulses as she went, utterly nonplussed by the carnage they had caused.

The fallen Russian made a gurgling sound as he stirred. Stubborn as a mule and twice as tough, the man still lived. He lay face down, his flesh a scarred, smouldering ruin. Irvine calmly stood over him and pumped two rounds into the base of the man's skull. The Russian stopped moving.

"Always hated that prick." Irvine said to himself.

Then he was on a com-bead. Subtle, high-end stuff. Rebecca hadn't even noticed it until the man put his hand to his ear.

"Murph, this is Fenton. We have her, but we're balls deep in 'Zoner territory. Going to need an extract."

In the distance, she could hear gongs and drums being hammered by all manner of sticks, hands and crowbars. The Argjend Assembly's very own dinner bell. The entire 'Zone was waking up. And when it did, it was going to come straight down on their heads.

Then bearded man turned and looked at Rebecca. Irvine was an entirely new person now: focused, calculating, professional. He offered her a hand, ignoring the clattering of drums that rent the air all around them.

"I'm Michael Fenton. This is Specialist Watanabe. Naval Intelligence. We're your extraction. And we're leaving. _Now_."


	7. Chapter 6: Kill Team

_"Good morning Argjend._

 _Lot of activity in the casts this morning, viewers. Lotta talk online. You've all heard the stories. Of unmarked black dropships in the sky. Secret government projects, shadow wars between proxy agencies. Unsanctioned raids of the Refugee Zone. You all know who they are, the New Cadiz Truther type; same guys who claim Orbital Two's collapse was a controlled detonation, that it's all a false-flag operation funded by the government._

 _Tell you what I believe? It's baloney, every damn bit of it. The firefight in the 'Zone? A border skirmish - gangs muscling in on each other's territory. The dropships? Sensor drones, doing a sweep over some junkie's backyard. I mean, c'mon. This is 2558, people. Everything has a rational explanation._

 _Everything always does."_

Media Cast from _Airtime Argjend_ with Danny DeWitt, aired 2558

* * *

"Sir. It's Pershing. There's been a development with the Pearson girl."

"Report."

"She slipped the net. Police channels are reporting shots fired within the 'Zone. They've requested permission to enter the 'Zone. We've muzzled the request, but there's been no contact from our sources within the district. We suspect external intervention."

"Unacceptable. I want this situation contained, immediately. Do whatever is necessary."

"Understood Sir; I'll lead a team myself."

* * *

Watanabe took point as she led them through the warren. Any bystanders who tried to block her backed away as soon as they saw the machine pistol in her hand and the angry glint in her eye. Outside, crowds shrieked and gang members hollered instructions to one another.

They were being hunted.

One enterprising man saw them, tried to rush them with a crow bar. Watanabe didn't risk revealing their location by shooting him. She broke the man's arm in two places, finally cold-clocking him with a savage swipe of the machine pistol.

Rebecca carried no gun. She wouldn't have known what to do with one even if they gave her one. Instead she clung white-knuckled to the package the Spider had given her at the market. She had no choice but to trust these strangers. Her rescuers had given her a hat appropriated from one of the dead men. It was a canvass hat, the type mechanics would have worn out in New Cadiz, complete with a set of dust goggles. They gave her a jacket too. One that wasn't too blood-stained, so long as you didn't look too closely.

One of the few things going for them was that while the gangs' were on full alert, they had little idea of who they were looking for. That, and Rachel's newfound allies knew what they were doing. Twice Watanabe held up her fist. Fenton immediately grabbed Rebecca, a hand clamping over her mouth as they ducked into the shadows of a doorway or side room. For rescuers, they weren't afraid to be rough.

A half dozen gangers thundered past, their blood up. Entirely oblivious to the three people hidden inches from them. Rebecca quickly decided that she didn't mind them being rough, if it meant getting out of here alive.

They reached the edge of the building. Loud thumping music, tribal and hungry, reverberated the thin walls, rattling the brittle wooden door. Watanabe dropped her shoulder and smashed it open; her machine pistol up, panning left to right. The sound of the street hit them like a slap in the face; full of whoops and shouts, as dozens of people rushed about. Sound distorted here, at the base of the towers. Those coming to investigate weren't quite sure where to look.

After a moment Watanabe gave a nod.

"Okay, move."

They darted across the narrow street, ducking into the shadows of a dimly lit alley. It was not a planned street, not a deliberate construction. Very little in the 'Zone was. The building to the left was a three storey prefab; the rivets and steelwork the only elements that weren't choked with incomprehensible paint spirals and rotting mouldering posters. To the right rose a far taller building, seemingly built entirely out of salvaged metal sheeting. This low to ground level in the 'Zone, the place was a claustrophobic swamp. Harsh neon lights burned through thick smoke from a half dozen lit oil drums. Ventilation was non-existent here. Rebecca's eyes stung.

Rebecca must have been out for a few hours. It was fast approaching nightfall now. The sun was low in the sky; which had turned to a rosy-amber dusk. Automated lights sprang to life, pre-empting the darkness ahead. Long shadows sinister fingers reached across the street, deepening as the lights sprang to life in uncoordinated clusters.

In the growing darkness the trio skulked, surrounded on all sides by the very worst of Argjend's criminality.

* * *

"Three minutes out."

The two drop-ships were matt-black, flying in a staggered line, coming in on an insertion vector. Their bellies nearly grazed the rooftops below them. No insignia, no identifying marks of any kind. Compared to the ordered civility of the city below them, the zone ahead was a riot of neon and chaos. Large smoke plumes began to drift up. The 'Zone's own warning system, alerting its members that there was trouble afoot.

The 'Zone itself remained oblivious to just how true that was.

On board, crammed into troop hatches and bedecked in the very latest military hardware, Pershing's kill team underwent final equipment checks. Ammo feed lines were connected to loading ports; visors were clamped into place and polarised. Every man was certified special forces; selected elements of the UNSC Army Rangers, Navy Marines, ODST and another half dozen exclusive units besides.

Every man was a practiced killer, chosen for their talent at ending the lives of others. Every man was chosen for their abject loyalty to Elias Becker.

Each fire-team member wore identical armour; matte-black Air Assault armour, complete with onyx visors. The make-up of each team was identical: one assaulter prepped for storm-clearance with a pump-action shotgun and demolition equipment, eight riflemen with a MA5 assault rifles, and a single heavy assault trooper for providing a base of fire. The heavy assault troopers were physical tanks; their body suits up-armoured with lift-assist gear to wield the M99A Rotary Assault Cannons they totted. The cannons were experimental, loaded with depleted uranium rounds for maximum penetration. Such was their bulk that their body suits came equipped with heavy respirator units; long tubes that stretched out from under their visors and snaked over their shoulders, feeding into the power unit at the small of their back. Their rasping breath filled the hold ominously. Short of physical augmentation, they were the most hardened shock troops you could ask for.

Pershing did not believe there was such a thing as overkill. He believed in absolute certainty.

Two such fireteams would hit the Refugee Zone, with the explicit intention of finding and neutralising one Rebecca Pearson. An additional compliment of troopers would remain on the Pelicans, providing reconnaissance from on high.

Pershing considered a map. He himself wore an armoured body suit, but had settled on a peaked field cap with inbuilt com-bead.

"There's a clearing just ahead. Looks like a communal meeting area." Pershing tapped the map twice, marking a waypoint, "Set her down there. Tell Bravo to set down a half klick within our location. Rally point is per my marker."

The Pelican tilted to the side as the pilot acknowledged, adjusting their flight path to make the final approach.

Pershing rolled his neck in a broad circle, tendons popping. He usually left the more direct field work to another member of his unit, McBride, who revelled in such carnage. Logistics and planning, deft execution, without emotion or sentiment – that was where he excelled. There was too much at risk here.

Besides, sometimes things demanded a personal touch.

* * *

Suddenly, the corrugated rooftops around them began to shake and shudder. Fairy lights strung between buildings tinkled and chimed like halyards in a sea breeze. Aircraft droned overhead. Drop-ships, coming in at dangerously low altitude.

"Trouble." Watanabe hissed.

Fenton nodded. They had to keep moving. He keyed his mic.

"Murph, where _are_ you?"

"Warehouse three blocks north east. Close to the 'Zone perimeter. I have transport, but the streets aren't safe. We'll have to lay low and pick our moment."

"Copy. We're enroute."

* * *

The Pelican swung low to the ground, engine wash kicking up all manner of dust and scraps of discarded paper; plastic bags and slivers of paper foil. Thick weeds and untended fronds of grass wafted and swayed in the artificial breeze. Chain link fences shook with a rattling clink. Alpha Team leapt down from the side hatch of Lander 1 within the dust haze, weapons raised. The heavy assault trooper took point, his monstrous cannot leading the way ahead of him.

Pershing and his men fanned out, affecting a textbook sweep and clear pattern. He turned back to the Lander, and gave two waves of his hand. The ship lifted and moved off, moving to a holding pattern high above. Sensor data and gun-cam footage from the landers would be invaluable during their search.

The clearing was entirely empty, at first. With the gangs roaming the neighbourhood in an agitated state, the residents of the 'Zone knew better than to stick their heads out. The trouble was never worth it. They hid from sight, curtains fluttering as some of the braver and foolish risked the occasional peak from windows high above.

It didn't take long for the shooting to start. A lone gunman at first, probably just a juvenile street soldier, eager to make a name for himself. The first shots to come in were wildly inaccurate; pops and cracks from ill-disciplined amateurs. All passion, no focus; but a threat was a threat. The fireteam crouched low in response, calling positions - weapons primed but tightly disciplined. They would wait for a clear and visible target. Eventually two or three more gunshots added their contribution to the mix. More shooters. The rounds snapped closer, kicking up dirt around them. Heavier calibre, likely a hunting rifle or some cobbled together scattergun. Unlikely to damage a UNSC battle suit without concerted accuracy.

The heavy assault trooper on point remained standing, VISR scanning the street for heat signatures. One round spanked off his shoulder plate, leaving the faintest scratch. He turned to face the direction the shot had come from.

There they were. He could pick them out, clear as day, hiding in the shadows. Three heat signatures, crouching low at the far side of the clearing by the burnt out ruin of an old APD police cruiser. More men (and they were invariably men) gathered at the far edges of the clearing, picking out shots from windows and shadowy doorways. Others stood well back, observing, cat-calling. Not all of them were armed. Not that they needed to be. Glass bottles and rocks came down, tinkling and smashing against the grass.

The trooper calmly opened his com line, unfazed by the missiles sailing down around him.

"Reporting hostile contact." The trooper reported, "Multiple targets. Requesting permission to pacify."

"Granted." Pershing replied.

The assault trooper's response to the scattered incoming fire was comprehensive.

There was a shrill whine as the rotary cannon cycled up, up-spinning to fever pitch. Recoil containment systems mag bolted to the arms of his suit locked tight, as he planted his legs carefully.

Then he triggered the secondary trigger next to it, engaging the ammo feed.

The cannon screamed online; streamers of fire licking from the barrel like a murderous afterburner. The tracers split the air like a laser beam, ripping through steel and bursting concrete walls. The far side of the clearing lit up in a ribbon of explosions, like a miniature napalm strike. Entire shanties sagged under the deluge of fire.

The 'Zoners didn't die. They evaporated. Men fell apart; their bones burst, bodies sawn in half at the waist. Limbs vanished, as some men were lifted off their feet, torn apart and churned into meat-spray. Left to right and back again, as the cannon arced its murderous path back and forth. The skeletal remains of the police cruiser disintegrated, spalling into smouldering wafers of shredded metal that dazzled in the flames.

The weight of incoming fire abruptly ceased.

The trooper snapped his finger off the trigger. The barrels spun down, glaring red hot. Steam vents purred and hissed out a waft of sighing smoke. He kept one eye on the temperature gauge on his HUD, the other on the devastation ahead.

The entire street burned, littered with dead. The kill team surveyed the carnage, entirely unswayed.

"Clear." The trooper announced calmly.

"Move out." Pershing barked, urging his men onward with a chop of his hand.

Kill Team Alpha advanced, heading deeper into the 'Zone. Six hundred metres to the east, Kill Team Bravo made similar headway.

Caught between them was their target: an old habitation shelter, the last known position of Rebecca Pearson.

* * *

The atmosphere in the 'Zone changed. There were no more drums, no more fog horns or cat calls.

There was just gunfire, frenzied panic. Animal fear and screaming. Then that terrible burring roar, over and over. Those sounding the gang's make-shift intruder alarm fled from it, streaming past the gunmen who moved to intercept this new threat invading their territory. Many snatched up weapons of their own, desperate to defend their homes. The search for Rebecca and her companions was quite forgotten in the ensuing chaos.

Not that it mattered to Rebecca and the others. They still had to avoid the major patrols rushing toward the carnage. There was no coordination to the gang's movements. The new threat seemed to be coming from all directions. At a glance Fenton and Watanabe would pass for the 'Zoners, but even with the makeshift disguise they had pulled together for Rebecca, they would not take the risk.

It came in fits and starts. There would be the staccato pop and echoing rattle of small arms fire, then an awe-inspiring rumble in response. The sound drowned out anything else. The ordinary citizens of the 'Zone were hardened survivors, who had fled the horrors of New Cadiz. They instinctively left their homes as soon as they heard it, moving in the opposite direction of the fighting. They knew the destructive power of ballistic weaponry in the 26th century, had seen it chew through brick and building and bone. This was the horrific reality of modern warfare, where hiding alone would not save you.

Pershing's team advanced, a well-oiled machine. The assault trooper drove the hordes of fleeing gunfighters, wiping a dozen at a time with a single spurt of shrieking fire.

The rest of the squad stacked on the south-east corner of the target building. The breaching specialist didn't bother with a breaching charge. He simply blew the cumbersome lock apart with a single blast of his shotgun. A savage mule kick took the door off its hinges. He entered the dimly lit building, breath loud in his ears within the confines of his helmet. The sensor suite was alive with movement. There were dozens of people in the building still; squatters and no hopers.

Movement. A woman scampered across the corridor. The shotgun thundered reflexively. The blast took her in the back, spinning her around and slamming her off the door jamb. She flopped gracelessly on her side, legs still kicking from where the nerves didn't have the sense to know the body they served was already broken. He turned the body over with a toe of his boot. Shocked eyes stared up at him, unblinking; a look of surprise frozen on her face. The trooper compared the blonde woman's face to the one in the corner of his HUD.

"Negative I.D." he reported, stepping over her. "Moving on to the marker."

Further up the corridor, two more commandos dove into the next room. The dark doorway lit up with pulsing flashes of gunfire. The two commandos emerged moments later, weapons smoking. The air was thick with cordite. One shook his head at Pershing.

"Last room secure. Building's clear, Sir."

"Extend the target area. We're not leaving until we have a confirmed kill."

The street outside was fast becoming a war zone. One half of the team was busy maintaining an external perimeter. They held down the surrounding streets, disciplined rifle fire cutting down anyone brazen enough to attempt to cross the street. The most hardened elements of the Argjend Assembly were getting into the fight now. Imported, makeshift or stolen, it didn't matter - their automatic weapons more capable of putting a dent in the kill team's armour. Pershing's team didn't intend on giving them the opportunity.

They had a job to do, and would stop at nothing to accomplish it.

* * *

Watanabe swore and fell back on her ass. Hard rounds stitched the corner she'd been peaking around. They had gotten turned around during their flight toward the evac point. Ended up looping back toward the very location they had fled from. The men shooting at her had been trained marksmen, firing from an elevated position. Low light equipment too, judging by the accuracy. She knew the sound of the weapons they carried, had often carried them herself. She was used to plasma fire, to flashing green bolts and sizzling azure fire. She'd never been on the receiving end of a kill team before.

"Back, back! The other way!" she snarled as she scrabbled to her feet.

Fenton led the way now. He turned a corner, almost walked straight into a trio of nervous youths fingering a selection of handguns uncertainly. Kids really, none of whom had any business being in a warzone like this. Fenton drew on them, catching them by surprise.

"Walk away." He ordered. "Put the guns down, and walk away."

The youths held up their hands, quite forgetting the weapons they carried. They still had their hands up when a volley of shots stitched across them. They jinked a morbid dance before collapsing to the dirt.

Rounding the corner was a mob of gang fighters. Their tattoos set them apart from those from the Argjend Assembly; less Cyrillic, more oriental. Mohawks and elaborately coloured jackets set them apart from the 42 Gang. A rival gang, looking to capitalise on this latest intrusion on the Assembly's territory. They'd shot the young gangers because they were the first target they came across.

Which left Fenton, Rebecca and Watanabe square in their gunsights.

A series of low thumping cracks lit up the street. The first of the new gang members toppled, a significant section of his torso missing. More shots, more bodies fell. The thugs threw themselves down, returning fire, taken by surprise. This wasn't erratic gangland shooting. This was disciplined marksmanship.

On the far side of the street was a single man, unrecognisable for the dust-cover and low light goggles. He held an M392 DMR and evidently knew how to use it. He set down a base of fire, relentless. Fully half the incoming gang were dead or dying in the middle of the street. Fenton recognised this newcomer immediately. He dropped to one knee, adopting a classic sharpshooter's firing position. The harsher spit of his service pistol added to the chorus of cover fire. Muzzle flashes lit up the street.

That was the only signal Watanabe needed.

"Come on!" Watanabe snarled, shoving Rebecca across the street, one hand on the back of the traumatised doctor's head, keeping it low. She sprayed discouraging bursts of her machine pistol as they made the dash. The two women flung themselves to the ground, taking shelter behind Rebecca's latest saviour.

Fenton went to join him. A stray round clipped him in the meat of his left ankle. He yelped and tripped in the middle of the street, reduced to dragging himself forward. He still clutched his pistol, the determination in his eyes mixed with a frenzied pain.

"Watanabe, cover fire." The newcomer ordered, as he calmly handed his rifle to her. He sounded a bit like Damien, though older. Watanabe duly complied, taking his position. She operated the rifle as though she were born holding it. The stoic professionalism of it all shocked Rebecca.

She could only watch as the stranger bolted over to Fenton, hauled him over one shoulder, and hurried back. Every step of the way bullets snapped into the dirt around them, missing by inches in some cases. Had the lighting been better, had their attackers been more disciplined, there was little doubt both men would be dead.

The two men collapsed into the alleyway, breathless but otherwise unscathed.

"Help me with him." The man huffed, setting Fenton's back up against the alleyway.

"Thanks Murph." Fenton managed through gritted teeth. His leg was a ragged mess. The newcomer had unpacked a portable BioFoam canister from his belt.

"Didn't drag you halfway from Crassus just to leave you here, Mike." Murphy replied, spraying the wound, "Situation's deteriorating pretty fast. Thought it best to come get you."

"It's appreciated."

The man pushed his goggles up on his forehead, pulled the dustcover down from his face. He was in his mid-thirties, his dark hair flecked with grey. Even in the dim half-light, his eyes were wild with adrenaline.

"I have a hold-up point not far from here, but Becker's men have air cover over the entire district. We won't be going anywhere, not 'til things die down."

"How far?" Rebecca asked.

"Well that depends." Murphy grinned, rubbing his chin, "How fast can you hop, Fenton?"

They half ran, half hobbled the two blocks to their temporary sanctuary. It was an old warehouse, long since converted into an open shelter. Whichever residents that were squatting in the lower section had long since fled when the shooting started. A series of tarps covered most of whatever was stored here, forgotten under the dust covers.

Murphy had made his home on the mezzanine level, on a platform overlooking the warehouse floor. He had the run of the place to himself. Based on what little Rebecca had seen of the man so far, she imagined he could be quite persuasive. It was clear he had been living here for some months. There were stacks of medical food supplies. A recently opened weapon crate and discarded weapon cleaning kit sat on his bed, which was little more than a mattress atop some wooden pallets. There was a table beside the bed, littered will all manner of military paraphernalia.

They lay Fenton on the mattress, the still-hardening BioFoam and slick bloodstains dyeing the sheets a dark crimson. Rebecca went to apply what little physical medical knowledge she had, only to find Watanabe had assumed the role of combat medic. The woman's versatility amazed her.

Fenton was pale but conscious. Sweat shone on his skin. He too was riding the combat high. Murphy had taken a lookout position at the window. Dusk had truly settled now. Gunfire still crackled in the air. Streetlights for blocks around them had failed, either the power failing or being destroyed in the ensuing fighting. The two black dropships soared overhead, barely discernible against the darkening sky. Their engines beating down at the plumes of smoke rising up from a district at war with itself. Fires were spreading, unaddressed by the city's emergency services. Nobody went into the 'Zone, not without formal sanction.

The 'Zone was tearing itself apart. The fuse had been lit, and now every lingering enmity in the sector was flaring to life. Upwards of five separate gang factions were involved. Old scores resolved themselves in a bloody reckoning. Hundreds of innocent bystanders were already dead. Hundreds more would be wounded in the night ahead. As if on cue, there came another keening chatter of a rotary cannon. Another plume of fire rose up. Closer this time.

"We need to get her out of here." Fenton was saying. "That's a kill-team. They'll purge this entire area until they have a confirmed I.D."

"We can't move you, not with this injury." Watanabe shook her head.

"We can't fight them either." Murphy replied, his eyes still on the flames licking across the ruined sector. "We've served with teams like that in the past. Hell, I used to lead 'em back in the war. They won't have shown up here unless they had the means to level the entire district."

"So what can we do?" Rebecca asked.

Murphy pursed his lips. He crossed over to the table, setting the rifle down. He took an inventory. Three pistols and a single machine pistol lay on the table next to the rifle. Beside that, a half dozen grenades of varying shapes and sizes, and a smattering of magazines. Beside them, a single, solitary combat knife.

He rested his knuckles on the table, brow knitted in thought. Compared to the raging carnage outside, to the murderous whine of the cannons and the accompanying screams of the dying, it made for a particularly disheartening arsenal.

Eventually he turned back and faced the others.

"Here's how I see it. I have one rifle, with two mags plus change. There's a shotgun in one of the stores downstairs. Maybe a mag each for each of the handguns. Fenton, you're walking wounded, and while 'Tan here might the hardest bastard to ever step forth from a UNSC drop pod, the team that's after us is probably carrying the most sophisticated weapons technology a modern military force can employ."

"We've been in worse situations." Watanabe sniffed.

"Yeah, but not _much_ worse." Fenton grimaced.

"Then we pull the only card left in our deck." Murphy said, "The ace in the hole."

Murphy reached under the bed. He hauled out a non-descript briefcase, set it on the bed next to Fenton. With a pop of the clasps, the briefcase opened.

It was a transmitter of some kind. A signal beacon, intended for wide-band, emergency broadcast.

"Telling them where we are? That's your plan?" Watanabe stared.

"You activate that, they're going to have a fix on our position." Fenton agreed.

"I know."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Rebecca asked. She felt like she should say something.

Murphy raised an eyebrow.

"A good idea? I really haven't a notion, truth be told. I wish I could tell you there was a plan. That I was relying on anything other than my own instinct."

He crossed back over to the window, eyes on the horizon.

"So I won't lie to you: there is no plan. We have no options, and the bogeyman man is at our doorstep. So we'll hold up here, dig in. Give these bastards a fight they'll remember. But mostly, I'm just counting on one thing."

Murphy triggered the activation switch on the com relay. It sprang into life, began emitting a regular bleating ping.

A steady green light lit the display: signal activated.

"That whoever or whatever that beacon brings, it's bigger and nastier than anything this city's ever seen."

* * *

Pershing was agitated. Six blocks they'd swept and still nothing. The worst of the 'Zone had been thrown at them, and the kill teams had fought on unfazed. His preparations had been more than adequate. Throngs of gang thugs and slum filth weren't any real contest for a well-drilled team of dedicated specialists. Like beaten dogs they had fled, unable to compete with raw lethality and the night vision capability of the strike team. They would return in the morning, but by then Pershing and his men would be long gone.

Still, Pershing was concerned. The Pearson girl continued to elude them.

Deliverance came unexpectedly, from a com-signal relayed from one of the circling Pelicans.

"Sir, we've got an emergency distress broadcast. Distress signal, but the tech's military grade. Heat signatures show four targets inside. I think we've found them."

"Position?"

"Coordinates marked on your map now, Sir."

Pershing activated the Tac-Pad on his wrist. The observer's report had been accurate. Not far, not far at all. As luck had had it, the team had been headed in the right direction all along.

"All units, converge on the marked location. We have them."

* * *

Damien had asked Park when he could get started. The answer came sooner than expected.

They had been in the air for three hours. Damien had run through some basic motion tests with the armour, pacing the deck, getting a feel for its weight. Not enough room in the hold to test the improved thruster system, but there would be plenty of time for that later. There was little sound on board but the muted thrum of the engines. It had been a smooth flight.

Damien was unused to wearing a helmet after so many months out in the cold, in a quite literal sense. His own com chime took him by surprise.

"Better get up here, 451." Eric's voice growled in his ear.

Damien thumped his way to the front of the Condor, stepping into the cockpit section. With two fully armoured Spartans up front, it made for a tight squeeze. Perry was calmly surveying the instrumentation as the drop-ship took its place at a rear of long line of ships queuing to approach Granica Station. The orbital station was primarily a customs hub in low orbit over Argjend, well stocked with a full complement of tariff agents, boarding personnel and a standing force of accountants, legal advisors and anyone else tangentially related to the business of shipping.

This high up in the atmosphere, the colour of the atmosphere was a milky purple. The curvature of Granica V stretched ahead of them, banded by a broad expanse of pearlescent white cloud. Connecting the planet and the station like a ribbed umbilical cord was Orbital One, the last remaining orbital tether left to the planet. The sight of it filled Damien with guilt.

They were all manner of ships ahead of them, running lights blinking in the early night sky. Boxy bulk haulers, freight carts and even a few repurposed Condor ships like the very one they were flying. No too looked alike, dressed as they were in the livery of the myriad trade companies and co-ops acting out this far on the galactic rim.

"Hell of a wait ahead of us." Perry nodded, "I have our transponder identifying us as the _Meridian_ , a re-fitted pack hauler bringing in a new supply of fish from Tana. While this makes us less likely to get swept by customs, it does mean we take a backseat relative to the more connected transports coming through. Medical, humanitarian and military get top of the pecking order, and we're something of a luxury item on that list."

"We can't afford to wait." Eric glowered at the ships ahead of them, "We're out of time."

Eric turned and looked at Damien.

"Signal just came in. Distress call from the ground team. It's open channel, wide-band. I know our men groundside. They wouldn't use it unless they absolutely had to."

"How much time do we have before they get intercepted?"

Eric didn't break Damien's stare.

"Not enough. Get down there, and do it quickly. I'll have further instructions once Dr. Pearson is secure."

"Sir." Damien tapped the brim of his helmet in salute.

The Spartan strode the rear of the Condor. He already knew what he needed.

Eric was still briefing him over the com.

"You're within strike range of the target AO. This is the only chance you'll get to supply, so take as much as you can. Beyond that, weapons and equipment are OSP. We'll be running remote support, but make no mistake: once you kiss dirt, you'll be on your own."

"Understood."

Damien pulled a set of webbing over his armour, giving it a shake test. The various grenades, flashbangs and breaching charges didn't so much as rattle. He nodded once, satisfied. He knelt down and clipped a knife sheath around his ankle.

Next, weapon selection. He plucked an MA5 from the rack, mag-sealing it to the small of his back. He then picked up a BR85, snapping the charge handle back, inspecting the chamber. That he bolted onto his torso. He'd need both hands free for a hard drop.

The re-entry pack was next. It was a large boxy unit, ending in three fluted exhaust valves. It clamped itself onto locking points on his armour with a resounding chatter of metallic teeth. He shrugged his shoulders once. He still had mobility. Good.

Park was watching him.

"Uh, am I missing something, or is that a re-entry pack?"

Damien swept past him, moving toward the rear of the ship.

"Situation's changed. Eric wants me ground side. Seal the rear hatch."

"An atmo drop? You're crazy! We're almost in the stratosphere!"

Damien turned and faced him, armed to the teeth and bristling. One of his friends was in trouble. This really wasn't the time.

"It's been done before, Park. Higher altitudes, older systems. You wanted field test data?" Damien clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking the portly tech off his feet, "This is your opportunity."

Park shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He was an engineer, a service technician. Dropping people out of planes was so far beyond his field of expertise, he didn't even know where to begin.

"Jesus. Okay, okay; hang on."

Despite his inexperience, Park made preparations quickly. He had studied for it, after all.

First he pulled on an insulated jacket and gloves. Then he made his way around the hold, securing cages on each of the weapon racks, locking everything down magnetically just to be sure. He then clipped himself on to a harness affixed to a holding tether on the ceiling of the hold. Last came the helmet, a sealed environment mask typically worn by UNSC service crew. For a moment he fiddled with the air mix, making sure everything was suitably sealed. He resembled a giant insect by the time he shuffled his way to the emergency release hatch, the security harness following him like a canvas umbilical.

Damien stood by the rear hatch, hands by his sides, entirely unrestrained; waiting.

Park's voice sounded tinny as it fed through his helmet speaker.

"We'll be over the optimum jump zone in about five minutes. You're aiming for the western part of the city. Target area's called the Zone, and by all accounts it's bandit country, so good luck."

Damien raised his left wrist. A holographic map sprang to life. A nice improvement over the previous system. A red target icon showed him the beacon's origin point. Gave him something to shoot for.

"Plenty of roof gardens and canopies among the high rises – try to avoid being conspicuous."

Damien shrugged his shoulders, his dark blue armour pauldrons emphasising both the gesture and his massive size.

"Be inconspicuous. Got it."

Park punched the release button with the heel of his hand. There was a strange tightening pressure as the air was sucked from the room. Then the environment seals un-seamed. With a hydraulic yawn, the rear hatch began to open down. Fierce winds pulled at them, tugging at the folds of Park's flight suit. The temperature in the hold plunged.

"Keep your suit systems dark until you're within a half klick of the city. You get picked up before that? The mission's over before it even started."

Perry chimed in on hearing that.

"Just so you know. The city's got a pretty impressive anti-air system; prerequisite for any colony worth its salt nowadays. You don't want it targeting you, trust me."

Damien nodded sagely, stepping forward to the very edge of the ramp. The running lights on his armour winked off, draping him in the shadows of the hold. Behind him, filling up the entire horizon was the entire city of Argjend, massive in size. A billion street lights winked up at them. Damien turned to face Park, his back to it all. He would see it up close soon enough.

Park formed an O shape with his thumb and index finger. They were in position. Damien flashed a thumbs up, then thumped his fist against his breastplate once, for luck.

Then, arms spread wide, he stepped backward into oblivion.


	8. Chapter 7: Siege Breaker

" _I want to know how it was that there was a full blown_ gang war _in the Refugee Zone, and I wasn't informed."_

" _We requested the order to go in, Commissioner. Raised it over the wire. Several times. It's all here in the logs."_

" _Then can the_ logs _explain the midnight Chatter call I received from Administrator Jennings, asking me_ to turn on the midnight news _?"_

" _That's just it, Sir. We repeated the requests. Stayed on the edge of the 'Zone, had emergency teams on standby. Fire control, ambulance, civil protection; I made the calls myself. They went into the official channels. They just never got through."_

\- intercepted communication between senior APD command personnel, 2558

* * *

Damien was in free fall.

He angled his arm slightly, allowing the wind to slowly spin him around on his back. Granica V, and the sprawling metropolis of Argjend, slowly drifted into the frame of his visor.

Damien did not fall gracefully, encased as he was in thick armour plating. He did not fall like a sky diver, all serene and smiling. He fell as a tank would fall, if you picked one up and hurled it out the side of a space craft in low orbit. His armour shook from the wind resistance; the body suit auto-hardening as it adjusted to the massive g-forces being exerted.

To his feet was Orbital One, the massive space elevator servicing the city. Rushing up toward him were all manner of landing craft, dock haulers and cargo tugs. They swarmed around some of the larger trawlers, like schools of pilot fish. The larger bulk shipments would be fed up via the elevator to Argjend Station and off-loaded there, but many would make atmospheric drops directly, touching down on one of the many open hardpans at the northern Starport.

Twice Damien had to make blink-quick course corrections, slipping past gaps in the incoming ships. His suit was running dark; no running lights of any kind, his VISR dimmed to the darkest hue. They wouldn't see him until he'd made a nasty dent in the side of their hull. Damien tried his suit thrusters once or twice, making micro course corrections. They pulsed aggressively. Definitely stronger than the previous armour system. He left the re-entry pack inert for now. Activating it risked bringing the city's defence grid down on his head.

The altimeter on his HUD showed eighty thousand feet and plummeting. Descent speed had tipped Mach 1.5 at one point, before he cautiously triggered a spurt of his suit's thrusters. The Spartan had long since broken the sound barrier. His armour had locked in several places, in order to counteract the frenzied shaking. Another cautious burst of the thrusters tempered his speed slightly. Spartan or not, he wasn't going to be much use to anyone if he wound up a smouldering crater in the ground.

At forty thousand feet Damien began to trigger the inbuilt thrusters within his suit more regularly. They made little in the way of perceptive difference to the speed at which he fell. Damien would need to save the re-entry pack until the last moment. The thrusters gave him a considerable improvement in the control of his descent, however. Slowly but surely, he angled closer to his target area.

As he descended, details came into focus; resolving from a murky nothingness to defined shapes. Metal fingers, reaching up to him. The city slowly loomed up at him. The lights growing brighter. Most of the city, the nice and civilised part lay toward Damien feet. That was not his destination. He checked the altimeter again. Fifteen thousand feet.

Habitation Zone 42-AE3-T (Temporary) – the Refugee Zone. At this height it was little more than a green marker on his HUD. He aimed for it, thruster jets spitting and firing as they micro-adjusted, angling him closer toward his destination. Not much longer now.

"Perry, you there?" Damien asked conversationally.

"Reading you loud and clear, 451."

"We were discussing the re-entry speed. For triggering the system."

"Yeah. Five hundred metres. That's at full burn, provided you've triggered the jump-pack at the three _previous_ speed demarcation points I tagged as per your recommended re-entry programme."

That set off an alarm bell in Damien's head.

"The what now?"

Damien burst through a bank of cloud cover. The city was alarmingly close now. He could see fires raging in the Refugee Zone.

"Your recommended re-entry program." Perry replied, "Eric asked me to upload it while you were getting prepped."

"Ah, yeah. Got it."

Damien hastily swiped at the holo-pad on his wrist; saw the application in question, blinking a furious red colour, livid. He'd missed it entirely. With a delicate tap, Damien opened the recommended jump coordination program.

Three points were clearly visible on his HUD. They were also a few thousand feet above him. He'd sailed past them minutes ago.

"Everything okay, 451?"

"Uh, yeah. Demarcation points. On it."

"Short bursts, remember. You don't want to draw unnecessary attention. That should give you enough of a break to trigger the last stretch at five hundred metres."

"Got it."

Damien didn't have a choice. He slammed the trigger of the re-entry pack at a thousand metres. It flared to life. Full burn, eight second duration. He slowed, to a degree. In much the same way a cannonball, or refrigerator can slow, when tied to a rocket and dropped from a plane. His stomach leapt up into his chest. The armour around his torso flexed rigid.

A bank of high-rise shanties raced up to meet him. That sinking feeling that had been growing in the pit of his stomach grew to full blown panicked realisation.

He'd miscalculated.

Damien hit the roof, shoulder first. Aluminium sheeting, hastily erected during a decidedly unseasonal rain storm over the previous summer. No longer. The Spartan went through it like an incendiary round through wet snow. He went through the next floor. Wood this time. Or at least it used to be, until it buckled inward, collapsing after him, reduced to kindling. The Mjolnir system had entirely hard-locked itself by the time he smashed through the floor below that. Some kind of internal glass-house; trellises and latticework splintered as he blasted through; bringing all manner of ivy and vegetation with him. And tiling, so much tiling.

That was when the jump pack exploded. This latest development hurled him sideways. He hit a wall next, went through it; patch brick-work, more corrugated sheeting,

By the time he'd skidded and bounced to a full stop, the Spartan found himself down at ground level. Moonlight drifted down at him, through the curving gaping tunnel he'd ripped through the building. Four storeys, descended with all the polite courtesy of a descending meteor. The walls were alight in several places, doused as they were in jet fuel from the shattered thruster pack. He was in a workshop of some kind, or what was left of it. The main work bench was flattened beneath him, as he lay in a trench-like furrow in the middle of the floor. There was bits of scorched plant matter everywhere.

"And the Chief made it look so easy in the 'vids." Damien groaned, rolling to his feet. The shield system was decidedly upset, bleating a steady reminder not to do that again.

The Spartan rolled his shoulders, testing for injuries. Bar some chipped paint on his left shoulder, and the occasional scorch mark or two, he was otherwise unharmed. He reached around to his back and went to trigger the auto-release for the jump pack. He didn't have to: the sorry broken scrap of metal fell off of its own accord. He'd been lucky, and he knew it.

The equipment situation was less fortunate. He'd lost his combat webbing somewhere in the crash. Both of his weapons were gone too. The MA5's whereabouts were nowhere to be found. The BR85 was in the room, he discovered, albeit in two neat pieces on either side of the room. Damien looked down. Even the combat knife was gone, the webbing that held it having entirely shredded.

 _Well then, time to improvise._

Damien opened his com, calmly surveying the carnage his impact had caused. There was nobody around. That was probably for the best.

"This is 451. I'm groundside. Proceeding to waypoint marker now."

* * *

Rebecca's rescuers made preparations as best they could.

The first thing they did was kill any of the lights left in the building.

"Close your eyes, and keep them closed." Fenton warned Rebecca. Watanabe pulled a lever. The lights, spot lamps powered by a remote generator snapped off. "Now open them, let them adjust."

Moonlight fed in from outside. That and the warm bask of the fires ravaging the 'Zone outside. Rebecca felt tremendously alone all of a sudden. _Where were the fire brigades, the people supposed to be protecting the city in times like this?_

"Stay away from the windows." Fenton added. "Whatever you do."

Fenton was perched on the bed, holding the only rifle they had. They had dragged the mattress to the edge of the mezzanine, giving him a commanding view of the floor below. The DMR clicked and rattled as he adjusted his grip, getting his eye in.

Murphy and Watanabe took care of the rest. A warehouse is a difficult place to defend. There were six potential points of entry open to an assault team. The skylights were an obvious one. There was very little they could do there, other than cover them with the DMR.

"Fire exits will be first." Fenton explained to her, covering the others as they worked.

Murphy was jury-rigging a breaching charge to the interior side of the doorway on the main floor, wired to some kind of remote detonator. Above the doorframe itself he taped a flashbang, tied to string that fed along the wall.

There was a single ground floor fire entrance at the north-eastern end of the building; a reinforced iron door; well-rusted and dented in places from where intruders had previously tried to kick it in. This was the door Murphy was booby trapping. Diagonally opposite was an equivalent door, which was at the foot of an enclosed stairway feeding up to accessing the viewing platform Fenton and Rebecca now occupied.

Behind them was another door, which led to an external fire escape.

"Not the main door?" Rebecca asked, nodding at the main loading bay.

"No, too much of an open area." Fenton replied quietly "They'll hit it, yeah, but the fire exits offer a way in and out at the north-eastern and south-western corners of the building, sheltered from this perch up here. That's where they'll start."

"How can you be so sure?" she whispered.

"Because it's what _we'd_ do."

Murphy had finished taping the string, playing it out over to a series of crates that served as a makeshift bunker of sorts. He would hold position here on the main floor. He had a service pistol and two magazines. That, and the trusty combat knife. He turned and flashed the others a thumbs up, crouching low and out of sight.

"When the time comes, you're going to want to keep your eyes closed. Remember that."

Watanabe was on the opposite fire escape. She had wired a similar trap, and guarded the top of the stairs leading up to the mezzanine. It gave her good view of the rear door, and an elevated firing position from the top of the enclosed stairwell. She totted an ugly, pump-action shotgun, and the machine pistol, tucked in the back of her waistband. The pump was a gang tool, designed for close range intimidation. She adjusted her grip on it, licking the sweat from her top lip. Not long now.

They waited there in the dark; the only sound their breathing, and the racing of their beating hearts.

* * *

"Approaching target location."

Commandos slid their backs along the walls, creeping ever closer. Infra-red, night-vision, bio-thermal; their VISR systems running a full sweep of the building. The windows were dark and silent. Pershing stood back, crouching in an alley across from the main entrance to the warehouse. He would let the team leaders lead the assault. While not afraid to get his hands dirty, Pershing's role was coordination, oversight. The rest of the team moved up past him, knees bent; rifles raised as the crossed the gap, fanning out around either side of the building. Encircling it.

The warehouse was an anomaly in the 'Zone, standing apart from the rest of the buildings around it. Even its aspect was strange, facing a different direction the natural flow of the shanties and high-density stacks around it. It was part of the old Argjend, long before the 'Zone had existed. With space being at such a premium, the buildings hadn't taken long to crowd around it.

"I want rifles on the rooftops." Pershing whispered into his mic. "Anything shows their heads, drop them."

Acknowledgement lights winked to life as his order fed through the command feed.

Two troopers fast-roped down from the Pelicans above, touching down on the roof silently. They gestured to each other silently, rope gear slung over their shoulders. They carried compact sub-machine guns, better served for wire work. Below, Alpha and Bravo Team took breaching positions. Half of the Bravo inched up the skeletal staircase of the external fire-escape, stacking against the wall, not making a sound.

The other Pelican deposited a duo of snipers on one of the taller stacks overlooking the warehouse. One commando deployed a spotter scope, auto-calibrating it. His shooter counterpart settled into a firing position, lying on his belly, the barrel of the immense rifle carefully balanced on a folding bipod.

"We're in position." One of the marksmen whispered over the channel. "Eyes on the target."

"Stack up."

Another breaching team lined up before the ground floor fire-escape on the north-eastern side. The demolitions trooper was in primary assault position, his shotgun slung. Had they the time, they would have brought up riot shields to lead the clearance. The Heavy Assault Troopers stood off on opposite corners of the building, facing out toward the rest of the 'Zone beyond, providing perimeter security. The locals had fled, the gangs retreating to bury their dead and lick their wounds, but Pershing left nothing to chance. Success was within their grasp.

Pershing consulted his Tac-Pad, reviewed the disposition of his strike team.

Five men on the rear balcony; five men on either ground floor ingress point. Two men on the roof, ready to effect a fast-rope assault. Snipers in place providing over-watch, and reserve units forming a wider perimeter, in addition to the air cover provided by the Pelican dropships. Text-book. All teams were in a position to prosecute.

"All teams, execute."

* * *

Murphy lay low, one hand on the string attached to the flashbang above the door, the other on the remote detonator. His eyes had long adjusted to the darkness around him. They never left the doorway, watching the light from outside shine in.

Something stepped in front of the door. Heavy boots, well armoured. They were quiet, making only the quietest shuffle.

Murphy thumbed the detonator.

* * *

Alpha Team's breaching specialist knelt in front of the door, slapped the demo charge in place. He was still wiring it when the door exploded outward, billowing out in a gout of metal chippings and fiery smoke. The man closest to him shied back, knocked off his feet. The third man in line stepped up, shoving his stunned fellow aside and barrelling through himself. Speed in an assault was key, even when faced with opening set-backs. Discipline was key. Storm clearance demanded follow through.

True to his training, the assaulter swept into the smoky darkness, VISR set for low light. He heard a sniping sound above as he crossed through the threshold. The trooper snapped about, rifle raised, fixing on the sound. He saw the flash bang taped above the doorway; noticed the pin flying free, the string attached to it drifting through the air, almost in slow motion. The moonlight streaming in from the skylight danced off the pin, mesmerising.

Then the concussion grenade thumped with an ear-splitting flash.

The VISR suite auto-compensated as best it could, but the damage at close range was done. He was still reeling when a series of hard rounds clipped him in the breastplate, knocking him off his feet, smashing the wind out of him. One bullet tore clean through his throat, puncturing the soft neck armour. He tottered and fell back outside, clutching his neck and gurgling, legs kicking. The troopers behind him pulled him free of the line of fire, hollering an indecipherable stream of barked instructions.

"Man down! Man down!"

* * *

"Go, go, go!"

Bravo encountered similar setbacks. The upstairs door blew outward on the external catwalk. The blast smashed the breaching trooper back over the safety railing. Arms flailing, alight in several places, he thumped down onto the ground and lay still, unmoving. The smouldering door lay on top of him, smoking at the hinges.

A woman appeared on the catwalk, not even before the dust had cleared. The four troopers stacked on the staircase were bunched tightly together, stunned. Caught dead to rights. The shotgun thundered three times in quick succession; resounding, meaty reports - _boom-chuck-click_. The assaulters' armour was too thick, the ballistic proofing too advanced to kill them outright. But they collapsed back on top of one another, winded, the closest man bleeding in several places where the shells had chopped deep into the more exposed pieces of the armour. Watanabe vanished back inside, as quickly as she appeared. Hard rounds chased her.

Pershing blinked. They had lost the initiative. He grabbed his mic by the wire, roaring into it.

"Roof team, get in there!"

The skylights burst inwards, a cascade of tinkling glass. Armoured killers descended on zip-lines.

Murphy got on the mic.

"'Tan! Lights, now!"

Watanabe hauled the lever on the generator.

Flood lights snapped on all over the warehouse. Piercing, blinding. Fenton had kept his eyes squeezed shut since the raid began, Rebecca too.

They opened them now.

The men on the wires were coming to, finding their bearings; groggily.

Fenton snapped the rifle to bear. The DMR barked heavily. Rebecca shoved her fingers in her ears, appalled by the defending sound. Hot shell casings spun over her, scalding where they brushed her skin.

Even wounded, there was no faulting Fenton's marksmanship. The first man through took a round in the shoulder, spinning him about giddily. Fenton's second round caught him on the return spin, punched clean through the visor. He fell slack on the rope, and lay there dangling for the rest of the fight.

The remaining rappelling trooper responded in kind. Reacting as he was, caught on the back-foot, the trooper went for quantity rather than quality. His submachine gun kicked and bucked as it opened up on full-automatic. Bullets cracked in all around them, thumping into the walls, sparking off the metal of the catwalk. A stray round smashed one of the bulbs of the upstairs flood lamp, knocking it off its stand. The remaining bulb flashed directly up, casting a sinister light high along the wall. Rebecca mashed herself into the grilled walkway, willing herself to live.

Abruptly the incoming fire cut out. Rebecca and Fenton both blinked in surprise.

The man on the rope was gone. Something had yanked him back out the way he came.

Something immensely strong.

* * *

The one door the defenders were unable to cover was the opposite door to Murphy's, at the foot of the internal staircase. Watanabe was in a difficult position: she had been tasked with two doors to defend, and – determined to cover Rebecca and Fenton – had committed to the top door first. The team at ground floor level stormed in, only slightly delayed by the door trap.

They swept into the warehouse, weapons probing for targets. One charged up the stairs, took a frenzied burst of machine pistol to the face. The others had already streamed in downstairs, surging inward. They opened up on the floor lamps on the ground floor, blasting them out with efficient bursts. Darkness filled the smoke-choked warehouse once more. The hunting commandos fanned out, beam-torches springing to life on their MA5's, sweeping the darkness, probing over the splintery tops of crates and the filthy tarps.

Murphy crouched low, chest hammering, drenched in sweat. He had a kill team coming in from both sides now, no body armour, and if he even poked his head out, those torches would blind him before he could even get a shot off. The sidearm was reliable in a gang fight, but laughably ill-suited to a fight of this magnitude. Murphy swallowed: pistol in one hand, knife in the other; readying himself. _Feck it, I had a good run._

There was a tremendous crash as another skylight blew in. A deep tremble shook the floor as something tremendously heavy impacted.

Murphy flinched as he heard the MA5's opened up. Then he realised the fire wasn't intended for at him at all.

Murphy could only infer what happened from his perch, nestled in his make-shift fort.

There was a meaty smack and he saw a commando come flying into view, arms wheeling as he rebounded off the wall, before falling back out of sight. Another two blurts of assault rifle fire rang out, answered by a long spurt of SMG; an angry, spit-rattle that sang off the high walls.

That too clicked empty. Then something hit the crate he was hiding behind, hard. Then everything went quiet, but for the electronic squawk-mumble of broken radios. A pall of gun-smoke wafted in the air.

Murphy didn't dare poke his head out.

* * *

"Contact! _Contact!_ "

There was no disguising the panic over the com line.

Pershing watched from afar as the windows of the warehouse lit up; flashing with the after-reports of panicked assault rifle fire. It was reactive, frenzied shooting; inaccurate, ill-disciplined. The two heavy assault troopers on perimeter duty both turned around, craning their necks to see what was going on.

The main warehouse door shook as a trio of rounds punctured through it. Smoke curled out of them. Then silence fell on the warehouse.

The men who had initially been caught in the defender's trap had held off from entering the warehouse. One of the troopers had taken it upon himself to help the wounded men clear, leaving two of his team stacked on the doorway. The empty fire escape loomed before them, venting coils of smoke ominously. The two men looked at each other.

"Do we go in?" one asked whispered.

" _Fuck_ that man." The second replied heatedly. "You go!"

Pershing's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the warehouse from afar.

"All teams, report."

Nothing but pitiful moans filled the airways. He saw nothing but the silent warehouse, and his wounded men, crawling away to safety.

Pershing opened his com.

"Pelican One, you see anything?"

"Nothing from top-side, Sir." The Pelican's pilot reported. "Too much heat interference coming from the shooting inside. Can't get a reading. We had residual sensor movement on the scope earlier, but couldn't track it. Some kind of meteorite. Probably a sensor glitch."

 _Sensor glitch my left foot_ , Pershing thought, his concern mounting.

"Prime cannons and target that building. Sniper teams, you have anything?"

"Nothing, Sir. All's quiet."

Pershing went cold all over.

"Breaching units, pull back. Perimeter units; rotate, form up and move in as one."

The two heavy assault troopers regrouped, advancing toward the main door of the warehouse. Supporting them were the five men Pershing had held in reserve from the initial breaching action. They approached in a staggered line, stopping just short of the warehouse entrance.

"Assault units engage."

The two assault cannons split the night sky; carving the entire front of the warehouse apart. Rounds punctured clean through brick walls on the far side, thumping through into the dirt in the clearing beyond. The main loading door consisted of two large, hinged doors; that had once yawned open on rickety, oil-starved hinges. Not any more: one door hung limply on one hinge, perforated in a thousand places. The other remained bolted in place, only the bottom half had been sawed clean off. The jagged edges glowed red hot from where the bullets had sawed it clean in two.

The warehouse beyond was pulped. The crates were all smashed up, the tarps shredded or entirely aflame. It was a hellish sight. The two assault troopers looked at each other, shrugged, then advanced.

They stepped into the ruined interior. There were arcs of blood on the walls, scattered shell casings. The hiss-rattle of the heavy assault troopers' breathing filled the air, rasping out over the crackling flames.

Some of the men lying on the ground were still alive. There were dents in their armour, their ribs had been broken and limbs savagely dislocated. But they lived. It was only the barest miracle that the second team's cannon fire hadn't shredded them too.

One of the troopers knelt down to inspect their injuries. The dents in their armour were peculiar in shape. As he ran his fingers along the impact mark, he realised what had hammered the ballistic plate into such a curious shape. They were knuckle marks.

The commando looked up at his team mates, horrified.

That's when he saw the armoured giant, crouched on the gantry above. Looming over them like some futuristic gargoyle. Quite how it had gotten up there without climbing gear or a jump pack was beyond them. The Spartan's running lights activated, the VISR surging into a bright opal blue as it seemingly announced itself.

"Above! It's above!"

* * *

Damien was already moving, thrusters flaring in the churning smoke as he clambered from gantry to ceiling joist; leaping from support strut to the next, almost too fast to follow.

Assault cannon fire chased him every step of the way, gouging ragged sheets out of the roof above, melting joists and sending sparks and tumbling scraps of metal raining through the air. A moment's pause meant death. Mjolnir or no Mjolnir, a concerted burst of one of those cannons was enough to gut a tank. Damien had no intention of being gutted. He raced ahead, revelling in the sheer speed the armour system gave him. Delighting in the thrill of battle after the longest absence.

The Spartan had encountered the kill team's victims as he approached the target zone, had witnessed their murderous handiwork first-hand. For every combatant engaged, Damien had seen a room of civilians butchered, numerous women in particular. Some of it was intentional: close range gun-fire, judging by the burn marks around the entry wounds. So much more of it had been sloppy collateral damage; a sector-wide purge. It had been systematic, indiscriminate; without hesitation or remorse. These commandos were practiced killers, professionals; unbound by conscience. They wanted Rebecca dead, and would have killed a hundred more if it meant achieving that end.

Damien would see them suffer.

The Spartan dropped amongst them, one hand snapping out and shoving the nose of one of the assault cannons to one side. It disintegrated one of the hapless troopers it now pointed at, leaving little but a pair of smoking boots behind. Damien held his grip on the barrel of the rotary cannon, twisted his wrist. The rotary mechanism shrilled in protest. Then the ammunition feed imploded, the blast sparking Damien's shields and hurling the weapon's operator away; respirator pipes hissing and flapping venting air as the assault rig came apart.

Damien spun with the momentum, the ruined cannon tearing free in his hands. He swiped it as a club, smashing another trooper clean across the room. The Spartan flung the ruined cannon at the next heavy assault trooper who pitched backward onto the ground, smashed off balance. The assault cannon split the sky for a second as he fell on his back. A descending boot severed his head from his body with explosive pressure.

The radar suite didn't lie. Three men still surrounded him.

Damien deflected an incoming rifle butt with his wrist, his return elbow snapping the man's head around so hard his helmet flew off. Two men left, either side of him. Damien slapped a rifle facing him out of the next man's hands, his other hand spinning the commando around into the path of his fellow's incoming rounds. The body shuddered and shook as Damien advanced, using it as a grisly riot shield.

The last commando's magazine clacked dry. Damien tossed the broken corpse aside, advancing with great thumping strides. The commando fumbled for a reload. He was still fumbling when Damien rocketed forward on his thruster pack, slamming into him so hard he dented the steel column behind him. The man slid to the floor, boneless.

Damien stood back. He heard a click.

The assault trooper whose cannon had malfunctioned was trying to pull himself to his feet. His rig was a mess, his armour in tatters. But he had a side-arm; had drawn it on Damien when his back was turned.

A DMR round from the mezzanine level took the commando in the back of the head. The pistol clattered to the floor.

Damien looked up, saw Rebecca and three other survivors huddled together high above. They peaked over the edge of the mezzanine, eyes wide, half petrified themselves. He nodded his thanks.

"Stay safe." The Spartan told them, "I'll find you when I'm done."

* * *

On their perch above, the sniper team watched in awestruck terror as the warehouse roof collapsed in on itself. The building was coming apart at the seams.

"Anything on scope?" the shooter ask, his own eye fixed to the scope. Both men had the visors of their helmets raised, preferring to press their naked eyes to the scopes. Such was their tradecraft.

"Nothing." The spotter replied, scanning with binoculars.

"Try infrared."

The spotter switched the filter lens, making a sweep.

"Negative, no target."

"Try low-vis."

"Negative, too much heat-wash."

"Try behind you." A third, filtered voice suggested.

Both commandos wheeled around. Damien smashed their heads together. He had pulled the blow; enough to incapacitate; to dent helmets and leave them unconscious.

A fractured skull was more than they deserved, but Damien left them bound up on the roof top, tied back to back; leaving them for the authorities to deal with.

In a shadow war like this, even mercy could have its strategic advantages.

* * *

Pershing felt sick with a feeling of déjà vu. The towering inferno that had once been their target area crackled and snapped in the night air; a vast plume of smoke rising up as the fire spread unabated. None of his men had emerged from the second assault. The bio-feed showed a wash of Status Red or Orange across the board.

He opened the com anyway.

"Sniper team, report."

Silence; rolling static. Then a voice cut in; unfamiliar, filtered.

"They're going to find out what you've done here today." an unfamiliar voice on the com said. "The crimes you've committed. I'll see to it myself."

"Who is this?" Pershing snapped, "Identify yourself!"

"The man who's aiming right at you. Nice hat."

Pershing turned to run. The sniper round hit the ground beneath his feet. It was a rifle intended for ensuring maximum lethality; designed in an era where the traditional targets were marauding aliens bedecked in mighty suits of shielded armour.

The bullet blew a small crater out of the ground. Pershing fell back on his ass. The rest of his surviving men bolted, utterly broken. Damien let them go.

Pershing glanced around frantically, looking for an exit. The two Pelicans hovered in a holding pattern overhead.

"I know what you're thinking." The voice said. "Do you strafe the entire area? Hope to get me before I get you?"

Another crater blast around Pershing's, this time to his right. He started with a yelp, despite himself.

The voice was still talking, low and threatening.

"Let's consider the timelines involved. First, you're going to have to find me. And that's going to take time. And then you're going to have to actually _hit_ me, and I promise you that's going to take even more time. Now, here's how I see it. It only takes _one_ _second_ for one of these rounds to cross a thousand metres. The range finder here? It has you fixed at about _five hundred_. I'll let you decide which way this goes."

Pershing thought for a moment. He could feel the eyes on him, the burning intent. He swallowed.

"He'll kill me." Pershing said eventually. "He doesn't tolerate failures of this magnitude. I wouldn't either. I'm going to call off my air support now. Don't shoot."

"Go ahead. No sudden moves now."

Pershing gave the appropriate signal. The two black Pelicans swung for home, vanishing into the night sky.

"Good. Now step forward, come over to the warehouse."

Pershing slowly stood up, raised his hands over his head. Damien watched him on the scope, the crosshairs lined up at chest level. He kept his finger off the trigger.

A single report rang out. Heavy calibre; echoing and directionless against the high buildings all around. Pershing blinked once, looking down in surprise. Gawking at the gaping hole in his ruined torso. He toppled face down in the dirt.

Damien cursed, rolling out of sight. A distant shooter, unseen. They had targeted the centre mass; as any professional would. Damien stayed out of sight, bellying across the roof tops. A rifle that powerful could tear chunks out of Mjolnir, could kill a Spartan outright, if you knew what you were doing.

In the distance he could hear sirens approaching. The authorities were on their way. He couldn't be here when they arrived.

The others were already gone by the time he'd worked his way to street level and stepped into the scorched remains of the warehouse. He'd approached from the opposite side of Pershing's body, not wanting to give the mysterious shooter an easy target.

Damien was too late. Between the rising flames and the sniper fire, the ground team must have decided to take their chances on their own. Some of the commandos' weapons were missing. They were better armed now, at the very least.

"Not even a note." Damien tutted, picking up the last remaining assault cannon and mag-sealing it to his back. The operator had required hydraulic support to wield the weapon accurately. Damien knew he could do better. Besides, he got the feeling he'd need the firepower. He also took an MA5 and a generous helping of magazines, discarding the sniper rifle; _too specialised for this kind of op_.

"Eric, this is Damien."

The response came back scratchy, popping with static.

"-o ahead, 451."

"Rebecca and the ground team are secure, but I've lost contact. I'll track them as best I can, but could use an assist. Can you raise them on coms?"

There was a pause.

"-Negative, Spartan. We've been trying them on our secure line, but something in your area - jamming the signal. It's taking about all the com equipment we have to get a message down to your suit. You're going to have - another way to make contact-"

"Solid copy, 451 out."

Damien closed the channel, setting one hand to the side of his helmet. His VISR flipped over to low-light mode. He spied a series of track marks leading south east to where the larger stacks with the large perimeter walls encasing the zone. Soot-stained foot prints, four sets; four different soles.

"Guess we do it the hard way." Damien sighed, setting off in pursuit.

A sniper scope tracked his progress, unseen; watching as he slipped away into the streets beyond.


	9. Chapter 8: Taking Stock

" _I came to Granica V with fifty operatives. Chosen men, well suited to the mission ahead. Before us stood a thankless task, without promise of glory or reward. We knew the risks. Understood the full consequences of what we would accomplish, were we to achieve success._

 _Fully half of those men I left behind in the ruins of New Cadiz. Tonight, more of our brothers have fallen. I am now left with but a handful of those I originally set out with. Yet I do not despair. This mission is the culmination of my life's work, a final act of contrition for the sins we committed as a species. Even with tonight's setback, I remain resolute. Arrowhead approaches fruition; and, with it, my redemption._

 _There are those who would seek to stop us, to deny us our long-sought victory. They do not understand the extent of our preparation:_

 _Argjend is_ our _city. Our influence is everywhere. Our resources, infinite._

 _Humanity will thank us, and they will never know our names."_

\- excerpt from a private record, author unknown

* * *

Finally green-lit access to the district, emergency response teams flooded into the Refugee Zone, the whooping peal of their sirens splitting the air; waves of red light washing back and forth over the bullet ripped walls like some baleful lighthouse. For once, there were no bricks thrown, nor insults hurled. The traumatised citizens crowded the police escort, yammering for assistance, pushing their wounded forward to receive attention. Those who had not taken a stray round in the mayhem stood back and held those closest. Many wept. One or two shouted out challenges to the cops as they set up a perimeter, but for the most part a prevailing sense of shock held the crowds in check. Anger would come later.

The response teams pulled bodies out of the Refugee Zone long into the early hours of the morning. The EMTs were long since desensitised to pulling bodies from the streets of the city edge (often under heavy police escort), but this was different. This was killing on another scale entirely. Many were sick, or had to take a moment to catch their breath when another ruined door was shunted aside, revealing the charnel house within. Those who had served in the Human Covenant war suffered flashbacks, had to shake themselves before pressing on, jaws set.

There would be many inconsistencies to the police reports that morning. Many questioned the ballistic reports in particular, wondering how it was that street gangs gained access to weaponry of such lethal potency.

Those raising these questions were not there that night, when a trio of grey coloured M831 Troop transports trundled up next to smouldering ruins of the warehouse. Behind them followed two large black vans, otherwise unmarked.

Aengus McBride's Warthog ground to a halt, engine purring. In the rear seat were stern, dangerous men. His men. Bundled at their feet in the rear troop carriers were large, bulky crates; labelled as medical supplies. The men began leaping down from the rear compartment, fanning out over the area.

A police officer intercepted this strange new convoy. A short man, with a sharp widow's peak. Unimpressive, physically; but street tough like so many police in the Western District. He'd been pulled out of bed in the middle of the night, and was short on both sleep and diplomacy.

"Detective Greggs, Homicide. You're entering a secure crime scene." His badge flashed, catching the crackling fires that had yet to die out around them, "Who the fuck are you?"

Greggs' bravado withered considerably when McBride stepped down from the vehicle. He towered a head and shoulders above Greggs; a slab-jawed man with a trimmed beard and broad-set shoulders that seemed to be a direct extension of his bull neck.

McBride flashed him a badge of his own. About the only thing on it that was real was his photograph and the silver ONI symbol. But it would clear any background check a member of the APD could hope to run. Becker owned the APD, had done so for almost five years.

"Naval Intelligence. We're taking over."

He brushed past, ambling toward the warehouse.

"On whose authority?" Greggs bristled, arms spread wide. At that McBride turned, placed a hand on Gregg's shoulder. It was not a friendly gesture. He leaned close, closer than was necessary.

"On your _Commissioner's_ authority, Detective. You're standing in ground zero of a major terrorist attack. This is military jurisdiction now, which makes it _my_ jurisdiction." Their noses were almost touching as McBride leered down at him. "And we just lost a lot of good people tonight. So don't test me."

The hand released his shoulder. The other spooks swept past, contemptuous.

"Is this for real?" Greggs turned around to his partner, Lester Edgerton, who was half standing in the passenger seat of their patrol car, looking on. Edgerton just knitted his eyebrows and shrugged mournfully as Greggs joined him at the edge of the scene.

"You know… I've been around, Greggs. Fifteen years, city police." Edgerton fixed him with one of those paternal stares he so often favoured, "And there's three things I don't fuck with: our superiors, my ex-wife, and Naval Intelligence."

"This is bullshit." Greggs hissed.

"This is the Western District. Bullshit comes with the territory."

The radio warbled something that only Edgerton caught. The other duty officers were already filing back toward the entry gate of the 'Zone, back to the wider perimeter where the hordes of citizens looked on, rubber-necked.

"Maybe so. But it looks like it's official. Orders from on-high: we're being re-tasked. Perimeter duty, to await further instructions."

McBride watched them leave. When the last officer had departed, he turned to his men.

"Already, we have a limited window, let's make this quick."

The medical supplies were set on the ground, snapped open. Inside were all manner of illegal fire-arms: MA5's with the serial numbers filed off, cut down Koslovic assault rifles; the stocks removed, the metal work scratched and painted with all manner of lurid chalk-work.

Most of the weapons were dressed in rags, or had been customised in some way. Many of their magazines had been partially emptied in a secure off-site location.

The weapons were scattered amongst the bodies, tossed here and there. One of the crates held the shell casings associated with each of the guns; air-sealed in plastic bags. The operatives tore them open, tinkling them down around where each of the weapons lay.

Then the van doors opened. The rear holds contained cold storage units. Loaded on gurneys and slide trays were flash-frozen bodies, still venting steam from the heat-thaw. Documented insurrectionists, many of whom had been pulled from the ruins of New Cadiz. Some had been in captivity until earlier that morning. Becker had left little to chance; this had been his contingency in the event something went awry. His preparation in all things was absolute.

The operatives set the bodies among the devastation, removing their own men from the scene. Recorder drones flashed as they took still-frame images of the fallen insurgents, uploading them to local media sites via automated proxies. The narrative would be simple: a terrorist attack, one that set alight gang tensions and resolved itself with bloody inevitability. Any claims to the contrary would be dismissed as wild fantasy; debunked by the very clear evidence that was being - at this very moment - manufactured.

Elements wouldn't stack, but it would be enough. All you needed was a degree of misdirection, and then the public's imagination, and the media that stoked it, would do the rest. Any of the surviving members would be picked up by other clean-up teams acting on Becker's instructions. Those who could be salvaged would be given medical treatment, then assigned to the replacement response team that would inevitably be prepared. Those who lost their nerve would be mem-wiped, before being inducted into a veteran's home, the proud owners of an entirely new medical service history. Their service would be at an end.

The bodies of the fallen troopers were lifted carefully into sealed body bags, before being loaded back in the vans. It was a neat exchange with the bodies being planted. Soon, the site was entirely clear of incriminating material.

"Sir, better take a look at this." One of his men clipped over the mic.

McBride stepped into the hollowed out, charred skeleton of the warehouse. A trio of his men were clustered around one of the ruined assault cannons discarded on the warehouse floor. McBride pushed past, bending down to scrutinise the ruined weapon.

The rear of the cannon had blown back, the ammunition feeder belt lighting up like a firecracker. McBride turned it over in his hands, grunting as he hefted the heavy weight of the weapon onto its side, inspecting further.

The rotary mechanism had jammed. Something had manually ensnared the barrel, retarding the internal motors and leaving deep indentations on the barrels themselves. McBride's eyes narrowed. The indentations were grooves, quite distinctive in shape and form.

Finger marks; somebody had grabbed the weapon by the barrel. Had been strong enough to bend steel with grip strength alone. The brute power on display was humbling.

"What do you make of it, Sir?" That was Tanner, McBride's lieutenant. He was a broad man, with a shaved head and a trimmed goatee.

McBride scratched at his beard, unimpressed.

"Tells me enough." McBride sniffed and spat on the ground, "Tells me what we're up against."

The last body they removed was Pershing's, right on the edge of the scene.

McBride and Tanner stood over him for a moment. Neither spoke. McBride was not a sentimental man. He had killed just about everything there was to kill in the universe: brutes, split-jaws, humans of all shapes and sizes. He'd even taken a run at a Spartan once. Would have finished the job too, had that been the objective. Reflection did not come to him naturally.

Still, he took a moment for Pershing. The man had served.

McBride knelt over the body. Pershing had no dog tags to speak of, had no next of kin or any known family. Like the rest of Becker's men, he was a ghost, serving in a fraternity of men that had long since vanished from the official record. McBride hadn't known the man well, but they had furthered a cause together. That meant something.

"We'll get the bastards, brother," he murmured, closing Pershing's eyes. "' _Sic Semper Tyrannis'_."

McBride frowned as he examined the chest wound that had demolished Pershing's chest plate. He turned and looked at the warehouse. The exit wound was to the front, which meant the bullet had entered from a direction facing the warehouse, utterly at odds with the rest of the casualties they had removed from the site. Sniper round, heavy calibre; coming in from an elevated position.

Reflexively McBride turned and looked over his shoulder, a prickle of unease tickling his stomach. The towers of the 'Zone rose up all around him. There was no shortage of perches a shooter could take.

McBride opened his com.

"Sir, I've found Pershing."

"Status?" Becker replied smoothly.

"KIA. Took a sniper round from an elevated position. Only the angle's wrong. Whatever happened to the ground team, I don't think it was the same operator. Either they had backup, or we're dealing with a _second_ interested party."

"Understood. Return to our main facility as soon as possible. I want a replacement taskforce operational within twenty four hours."

"Yes Sir, I'll make it our top priority." McBride nodded, "One last thing. The bodies in the warehouse, the evidence on site is consistent with a Spartan deployment."

"So 239 has made his move. Very well. We're at a critical stage; disturbances to the program _cannot_ be permitted."

"Understood, Sir. We'll take care of it."

McBride rose to his feet. He touched his mic-bead, spreading the official word.

"Pack it up, we're done here."

By the time the media cam-drones and journalists were permitted access to the site, the unmarked convoy was long gone. Gone with them was any evidence of the dismantled kill team.

* * *

Rashid's initial concern began when Rebecca was late for their meeting at Havenwood Medical.

This was unusual. Rebecca was never late. This concern mounted when, thirty minutes later, he tried her Chatter line several times. His worry graduated to outright panic when he ran a trace-cert on her data pad, and pinged it as moving enroute to the Refugee Zone: precisely the opposite direction she was meant to be going.

In the stories Rashid had read and seen on the vids, a man placed in such a position would go in one of either two opposing directions. They would either seek to inform the authorities, and trust in the ability of civil society to resolve the matter satisfactorily (where a heroic law enforcement official would doubtlessly save the day), or they would do the opposite: they would go out on their own, tear the city apart in a relentless vigilante quest to find their friend.

Rashid, not being a man of half measures, decided to do both of these things at once. First he logged a missing persons complaint with the APD under an assumed alias. Then, fully cognisant of the fact that he was hospital bound and under careful military supervision (and thus not in a position to go on a vigilante rampage of any meaningful import), decided that any quest on his part would have to play to his strengths.

Which meant systems intrusion.

Rashid's long recovery process was an anomaly amongst Spartans. They were supposed to be immortal, impervious to damage; and quick to heal when they were injured. Chimera Four's prevailing injury was something of a sensitive subject to the brass, an embarrassment of sorts. This played to his advantage. They had secreted him away in a private screening room, isolated from the communal long term recovery wards. There were two MP's stationed outside, but neither ever bothered him, save for offering him the occasional coffee, or asking him his thoughts on the local grav-ball team. Six months of non-recovery had made them lax. Minding Chimera Four was deemed a cushy posting, low-risk.

That was good. Rashid would need the privacy.

Rashid's delving deck was a complex, custom job. It had physical, old school keys inset into it, which was something of a throwback in this day and age. Rashid loved the tactile chunkiness of it; had built it himself out of all manner of scavenged parts. But this was a serious matter. He would need considerable more flexibility.

A wave of his hand activated the holographic keyboard that beamed out of the centre of the deck. Another series of inputs raised a numeral pad to the right, and a series of viewing monitors projected out, beaming directly onto the open wall in front of him. These screens could be chopped and changed to show anything he wanted. _Much better._

The first thing he did was tap into the police network. He ran an audio feed from the patrol units across the city, focusing on the all-purpose wide-band. Simultaneous to this he wrote a quick voice-parser program flagging words "missing" "person" "Rebecca" and "Pearson". Whenever these words went out over the central line, the conversation would be recorded, saved, and neatly packaged in an allocated folder of his choosing. That would keep the APD honest whilst Rashid did more digging on his own.

It took a few minutes to tap into the security feed of the camera systems overlooking the perimeter wall of the 'Zone. This proved to be less useful than originally hoped. Primarily because most of the inward facing cameras had been vandalised; either smashed in with rocks or spray-painted by particularly acrobatic vandals. He panned through, flipping from one camera to the next; cataloguing those which were useful, dismissing those that were not.

Another approach was called for, then.

Rashid needed visibility. A bird's eye perspective over the city, one that could inform him as to the geography in real time. Satellites were out: most having been decommissioned or taken off-line by private stakeholders in the wake of The Surge of '57. He would need something more localised, privately funded.

Then Rashid had an idea.

There were a herd of zeppelins circling the city; three or four of them at any given time. Advertising hoardings, primarily; held aloft by sophisticated grav-technology rather than any primitive form of gas propulsion. The majority of the blimps were simply a hollow frame to accommodate further ad space. Antiquated but charming; harmless really – a forgotten background detail in an otherwise normal skyline.

 _Perfect._

The airships ran slow circuits of the city; holo-projecting corporate brand slogans and sports logos. A lesser known fact was these zeppelins were bedecked with all manner of monitoring equipment. They tracked traffic patterns and crowd data; app usage and spending habits; the marketing information up for sale to the highest bidder.

Rashid decided to repurpose one for a more decidedly noble purpose now. The drogues were drone controlled, programmed to run automated, randomised patterns over the city, before returning to ground teams at the northern Starport for regular maintenance review. Few ever ventured as far west as the Refugee Zone, which in a city of vast inequality was deemed a non-essential market.

That was about to change.

Rashid pulled up the Waypoint page of one of the smaller blimps; registered to Vyrant Telecom. A communications giant, who primarily leased the blimp to subsidiary providers. Vyrant had massive wealth, together with a litany of employee rights issues that placed them right at the top of Rashid's ethical shit-list, so he didn't feel particularly guilty when he accessed their remote monitoring software, leased the blimp to one of their own subsidiaries, and diverted it from its original route entirely.

The display on the blimp shifted, showing one of the more affordable burner data pads you could get - a more prudent for of advertising, given his intended destination over the historically poor Western District. Rashid let the automated software handle the navigation, offering only the slightest course correction here and there. His disguise complete, he set his plan in motion.

 _Slow motion_. Argjend was a vast city, and while the drogue was eye-catching, it was not known for its speed. Rashid was reticent to draw unwanted attention by having it exceed its usual speed. Night was falling as it steadily drifted through the fading sky, its running lights winking to life and blinking steadily. Rashid hopped from the Vyrant data page to the remote controlling server; leaping from there into the surveillance systems of the airship itself.

The array of cameras at his disposal made him cackle with delight in the quiet dark of the hospital room. It was a gold mine of monitoring software. He had to muffle himself, lest he attract the guards posted outside.

The surveillance kit of the advertising drogue wouldn't have been out of place in an infantry support drone. He had thermals, infrared; auto-detection protocols for individual citizens, four separate levels of magnification. Humanity had long since surrendered its privacy to the pervasive eye of the digital world. Anyone using their Chatter, browsing social media, making online purchases; they flashed up as little cards, revealing strands of web activity; leaving a trail which he could trace as long as his heart desired. The level of voyeurism was unseemly, were it not been so damn useful right now.

The only thing ensuring privacy these days was the sheer _volume_ of data available. It was information overload. Rashid had to clear the perspective, to focus the inflow of information in a manner that he could actually digest. He imposed a series of filters, limiting the information provided to location markers and citizen I.D's. He kept the cameras continually orientated on the Refugee Zone. It drifted ever closer into view with agonising slowness. It was completely dark by the time it was in position. Cautiously, Rashid killed the lights on the advertising drogue, bathing it in darkness. It disappeared from the night sky, the grey metal hull blending seamlessly with the drifting clouds around it.

Rashid blinked. He was seeing harsh blurts of light on the low-light setting. It looked for the life of him like muzzle flashes. Rashid's fingers danced on the keyboard, the haptic feedback clicking as they moved. He zoomed the camera in, toggling the filter to show ident tags and a skeletal overlay of the meandering streets around them.

This high up, the footage was grainy, battered by atmospherics. Still, it was unmistakable.

It _was_ muzzle fire. The entire region was caught up in a pitched battle, one without any particular rhyme or reason. Rashid saw a surges of crowd activity, bodies thickly packed. Widespread panic too. The ident-tags churned like static on a broken monitor. So many of them were place holder labels, showing as "undocumented, non-resident". These were the people fleeing the area where the fighting was thickest. Many of those at the centre of things were known only by their police records, which made for extensive reading. Rashid squinted closer, focusing on something else.

A third group, tightly coordinated, moving from building to building.

There were more men down there; black ants, scuttling in a coordinated hunting pattern. These men had no records at all.

Something drifted between the drogue's view and the battleground below. Rashid zoomed out, wave-snapped a recording of it onto a separate window. He stabbed a finger at it, initiating a short playback sequence. A negative outline of a ship, backlit by the sheer volume of ident-tags beneath it. Rashid recognised it at once.

A military Pelican: the silhouette was unmistakable. Running dark, no visible IFF marker of any kind. Rashid pulled the field of view wider, considering the entire region and context. There, to the north-east. A second one; again, no tags, no IFF.

Rashid calmly began recording the feed. Something was going on here, something nobody was meant to witness. He alone would bear witness. Rashid knew what it would be like ground side; the sound, the numbing fury of it all. Even without the thermal scan showing the cooling bodies, the number of tags which had ceased moving told him enough. He had front row tickets to a full blown massacre.

Up here it was all so serene; eerily so. Now he knew how the drone pilots felt.

Rashid adjusted the volume on the police dispatch. There was nothing on the principal communication line he'd been monitoring initially. This was the command line, where any major mention of Rebecca's Missing Persons complaint would crop up. He tabbed over to the general wideband for the Western District. The com exploded into life so loud he had to squelch the volume immediately. Panicked calls for emergency dispatch, urgent please for medical assistance and a crowd containment unit. A gamut of emotions: concern, frustration, fury, fear.

Rashid recorded this too. Something was amiss here. A civil disturbance of this scale ought to have triggered a city-wide lockdown. The absence of a definitive coordinated response was telling. Rashid was a skilled net operator, but couldn't find any signs of interception work in play. The only clue that it was going on at all was the prevailing inaction of those in command of the Western District.

The fighting continued. Rashid watched as scale of it faltered, dropping to isolated skirmishes here and there. The majority of citizens had fled the area, or had been slaughtered outright. The gangs too.

A proximity alert triggered on the drogue's sensors. Rashid pulled up the status report. Something had just ripped through the atmosphere at high speed, passing the airship as it descended through the cloud cover. Some kind of meteorite, based on the speed.

Rashid consulted a visual feed of the entire area. An object descending at considerable speed had impact one of the roof tops. The Spartan swivelled one of the cameras to focus on it. A large gaping hole had been dashed through the rooftop. A drop pod? No, too small. The impact crater would have been twice that size. More questions; more mysteries, heaped upon other mysteries. It was all happening so fast.

The fighting had slackened off in the past few minutes. The outlying gangs had retreated, bloodied and bruised; and there was a large vacuum, radiating out from a warehouse surrounded by more typical high stacks, so typical of the area. Difficult as it was, Rashid's eyes were sharp. He caught the spurt-flash of breaching charges, and then more reports of gunfire.

More figures flooded into the warehouse, and a frenzied firefight took place. Heavy beams of tracer fire tore the roof apart, tore up toward where the drogue itself drifted in the clouds. The tracers white-washed the feed for a moment. By the time the static-fizz cleared, the entire building was on fire. There was a wash of static, but Rashid saw them.

Four tags fled the building.

Three were nonsense; more "undocumented, non-resident" tags showed up. The fourth made him sit bolt upright in the bed.

Rebecca Pearson. Twenty nine years of age. Civilian contractor (suspended, pending review – DATA REDACTED). No mention of the Missing Persons report he'd filed four hours earlier.

Rashid scrutinised the way the people were fleeing. She did not appear to be restrained in any way. Indeed, the others were leading her. One of them was limping, badly. Rashid marked the three strangers in a particular colour, and hoping to track them later. They vanished under a covered market, some kind of hanging awning that blocked the drogue's sensors.

Rashid activated his com. It was almost 2am. Chidinma woke up on the fourth or fifth chime, her irritation vanishing once she heard the tone of Rashid's voice.

"Chidi, it's Rash. You're not going to believe this."

They spoke quickly. Rashid tabbed away from the drogue's visual display, collating the info and preparing it for immediate transmission.

He was still tabbed out when Damien's tiny figure emerged from the warehouse, and moved quietly out of sight of the drifting zeppelin high above.

* * *

The next morning, Rebecca's hands still shook. They had taken refuge in a storage unit on the very edge of the 'Zone, bathed in the shadows of the high pock-marked walls that ringed the ghetto from the wider civilisation beyond. Murphy had been leasing the unit via a dummy account for some time.

Rebecca wrinkled her nose in disgust. He couldn't have been paying very much for it. The walls were crude concrete block; long streaks of discolouration trickling down the brickwork where water damage had set in and been left to moulder. Lighting was sparse – a single exposed strip light, casting harsh shadows down around them; rendering their faces gaunt and skeletal. Emphasising just how worn out they really were.

Most of the adjoining lots were disused, and had been annexed by the homeless. They now housed burnt out oil drums and rotting mattresses; piled sleeping bags and carpets of discarded cans of all shapes and sizes. With EMT's distributing free medical aid on the other side of the district, there had barely been a soul around when Murphy unclipped the padlock, jerking the shutter upward with a rattling squeal.

Dominating the cramped space was a monstrous M12 FAV Warthog, its hulking wheels tight against the unit's walls. It was a civilian model, though not particularly luxurious compared to some of the ones you saw parading along the more exclusive neighbourhoods across the city. It was second hand, no-nonsense; dressed in a deep wine colour, and fitted with a roll cage and heavier grill guard that set it apart from its more fearsome military cousin. It looked every bit as battered as Rebecca felt. To the left of the unit was a long workbench, cluttered with all manner of survivalist supplies. Rebecca wondered just how many backup stashes like this one they had scattered across the city.

The shutter clanked down behind them, sealing them in. Watanabe helped Fenton into the passenger seat. The flight from the warehouse had taken its toll. He slumped in the seat, grey-faced and breathless; his shaggy beard matted to his face with sweat.

"We can't stay here. Not for long." Murphy was saying.

"He needs proper medical attention." Watanabe replied, rummaging through a first-aid kit on the work bench.

"He's undocumented. We all are." Murphy shook his head, "They bring him to a medical facility, there's no telling where he could end up. Becker has eyes everywhere."

"I'll be fine." Fenton croaked, before descending into a fit of ragged coughing.

Murphy waggled a disapproving finger at him.

"Don't even try that stoic shite with me. The last time you went that colour, I pulled an unexploded needler shard from your arse. Took the docs six weeks to regrow the lumps they took out of you."

"See?" Fenton's chuckle triggered a raw bout of coughing, "Walk in the park by comparison."

The two men bumped knuckles. Rebecca found herself a perch on another cargo crate. She sat heavily, the strength vanishing from her legs as the adrenaline seeped away. Her hands had developed a palsied shake, one she could not stop.

"You okay?" Watanabe asked, hunkering down beside her; offering a comforting shoulder squeeze. "You did well back there."

"Who are you people?" Rebecca looked up, expression pale, "Who were these men? Why were they after us?"

Murphy took it upon himself to answer. He was busy running checks on the 'Hog's engine, testing the water levels; ensuring the conversion core was running smoothly. He took a moment to step aside, one hand resting on the popped bonnet.

"They weren't after us, Dr. Pearson. They were after _you_." Murphy began, "Or more specifically, whatever the hell it was that's on that antique box of yours."

"You were the ones following me at the Market?"

"Us and half the city, from the looks of it. 'Zoners got to you first, but credits for cashews that kill team ordered the intercept."

"Gang leader got the call." Fenton agreed, nodding "Took it pretty seriously too, from the way they told us to roll out."

Murphy clanged the bonnet of the 'Hog shut. The man was filthy, his skin covered in soot from where breaching charges had detonated, and the ash-smoke from the burning walls had stained his ragged clothing with a murky grime. He looked at Rebecca, expression frank.

"You asked who we are. I can't say, not officially. We're working for an old contact of yours, Eric-239. We've been on station for twelve weeks, working deep cover within the Refugee Zone. We'd been informed that a rogue operative was operating out of Argjend; one who could be tied to the destruction of New Cadiz six months ago. Our job was to investigate reported connections, and await further instructions."

Murphy leaned back against the car, hands spread.

"So we split it two ways. I stayed loose, keeping an ear to the ground and reporting to Eric directly. Fenton and 'Tan here had the harder job, working muscle for the local gangs."

"We still don't know the extent of their involvement," Watanabe grimaced.

"Some of the shit we had to do." Fenton added ruefully.

Murphy began taking an inventory of their remaining weapons, setting them out on the workbench. It didn't take long. They had precious little ammunition left. Half a mag for the DMR, and perhaps a mag each for the smaller side-arms. Watanabe's machine pistol was entirely spent, and she'd discarded the scattergun during their exfiltration of the warehouse. She had needed both hands to carry Fenton.

"There's a lot going on in this city, more than the civilian government knows about." Murphy spared a look over his shoulder, "Look, I know what I'm saying isn't exactly comforting. But better to be up front."

"And the men chasing us?" Rebecca asked.

"That I _can_ talk about. Our target. Former special-forces group, designation Black Shard. A wet works outfit, drawn from selected elements of the Beta-V teams that were active back in the 2540's. Their leader is something of a legend in the intelligence community, a myth even. Elias _Becker_." The word was half-spat, "He's been AWOL for two years, but we have strong reason to believe he's here on Granica V, pursuing an agenda that is as yet unknown. ONI wants him tracked down and contained."

"Contained?"

Murphy's grave look told Rebecca everything she needed to know about his interpretation of the word. Then she thought of something.

"Rashid. Back during the fighting in New Cadiz, he identified men that were evidently ex-special forces" Rebecca said, "Do you think they had something to do with the Insurrectionist's collapse of Orbital Two?"

Murphy mulled this over.

"Difficult to say. We know Black Shard had been active in the New Cadiz theatre; that much is certain. And it takes considerable knowledge and demolitions ability to bring down an orbital tether. That, or a CCS Battlecruiser. I don't doubt the Innies had the resources, but they were trying to seize the city, not destroy it."

"I'd agree with that." Fenton said, "They lost the fight in a single stroke once it came down. Doesn't strike me as a winning strategy."

"But what would Black Shard stand to gain in destroying a city?" Watanabe asked, "What could they possibly have hoped to achieve?"

"Beats the shit out of me." Murphy shrugged.

"So what's our next move?" Rebecca asked. Her hands were calmer now, but for the occasional flutter.

"Get out of the 'Zone, for starters. This is No Man's Land. Becker can strike here with an impunity. We need to get you to a safe location, and I can't think of a worse place to be than this hole."

"That's part one of the plan." Fenton agreed.

"And part two?" Rebecca asked.

This time it was Watanabe who answered. She was busy removing the various knots and braids in her hair. Gang markings, ones she was evidently glad to be rid of. There was a small pile of discarded rings and cheap necklaces strewn around on the ground before her. Surely but steadily, she began to resemble a soldier again, albeit a filthy one.

"Part two is we find a means of accessing the data on that disc." Watanabe said, "They were prepared to tear this place apart to secure it. It's our job to find out why."

"Getting out of here's not going to be easy." Fenton warned, "There's going to be check-points, a full lockdown. Probably martial law in the city beyond, at least until the situation is contained."

"Have it covered." Murphy said brightly, crossing back over to the packing crate Rebecca was sitting on. "Uh, I'll need to move you there, Doctor."

Rebecca stood up, stepping aside. Murphy unclasped the seals of the crate, popping it open. Inside were clean uniforms, neatly pressed and folded. Rebecca recognised them immediately from her visits to Rashid in the hospital.

"Congratulations, Dr. Pearson," Murphy grinned, "Now's your chance to be a _real_ doctor."


	10. Chapter 9: Closing Circle

" _In the initial stages of our operation here, it had been necessary to cement alliances, to… cultivate certain relationships with criminal elements that were less than satisfactory. For reasons of logistics mostly; with official means denied to us, we were forced to determine an alternative method of bringing our equipment planet-side._

 _One such alliance was Semion Khulov,_ Pakhan _of the Khulov Syndicate. Russian criminal; infamous for his brutal suppression of some of the more vicious Chechen groups in the post-Koslovic underworld. Even with the Covenant's relentless persecution of the Outer Colonies, Boss Khulov remained what he'd always been - a business man, a survivor. Khulov had weathered the storm of decades of criminal infighting, the Covenant Invasion and the ensuing chaos of humanity's resurrection in the ruins of what once was. Still, after all this tumult, he remained at the top. Distasteful as he was, I respected his tenacity. He reminded me of me._

 _The Syndicate and its small army of_ bratva _had a significant presence within the city of Argjend, with documented involvement in smuggling, arms dealing and narcotics. The Argjend Starport, and the surrounding shipping companies associated with it, were their primary means of bringing illicit cargo into their other territories in the Refugee Zone and the city beyond. Administrator Jennings had taken measures to curtail their operations, even to a point where a special taskforce was set up. But still they persisted; unseen, seeping beneath the surface of a once good city, like a pus-filled wound._

 _The old man was no fool. Yes, there were risks in accepting Black Shard's proposal. We were marked men: ONI had us in their sights, and were determined to see ARROWHEAD aborted in its infancy. To bury the sin they themselves had created. But this was a man who had built an empire on the bones of his enemies, who had evaded the UEG for decades. There was nothing illegal he hadn't a finger in; all manner of contraband: narcotics, firearms, women. There was nothing Semion Khulov hadn't bought, sold, smuggled or distributed in his sixty year reign of terror._

 _Lab equipment? Why, that would be easy by comparison."_

\- excerpt from a private record, author unknown

* * *

As the sun rose and filtered its way through the blinds of Rashid's hospital room, the crippled Spartan remained wide awake. Fatigue did not bother him: injured or not, he was still a Spartan, and enjoyed all the benefits of a post-human nervous system. He was now busy trying to find a means of reaching out to Rebecca. Her data-pad had been left behind in her would-be abductor's hideout, which meant directly pinging her com wasn't going to work. Also out were the public access terminals: for one because there were precious few of them in the 'Zone itself, and for two because any that _had_ been installed had been savagely vandalised over the preceding months.

The drogue had tracked their progress out of the storage unit, revealing a civilian model Warthog winding its way through the warren of tight lanes and meandering alleys. It was a close-top version of the classic UNSC workhorse, but the tracking lens of the airship's data systems could read Rebecca's ident-tag through the rough of the vehicle, associating the GPS chip of the 'Hog with that of her person. He would be able to stay with them every step of the way.

Rashid pinged the Warthog itself, hoping for an on-board com-suite or Waypoint address. Nothing. Whoever had bought the 'Hog had evidently spent on only the bare bones of on-board features. Rashid realised this was probably entirely intentional on the owner's part. In a world where nothing was not tracked, chipped or carried a digital signature of some description; the less sophisticated something was, the harder it was to track. _Refuge in simplicity_ , Rashid nodded in approval.

Which meant that Rashid's solution was going to have to be simple in return. Something basic, something visual.

Like any Spartan, he considered the tools left to him. He had an aerial view over the Refugee Zone, and some of the most sophisticated data recording and monitoring software credits could buy. Short of military grade drone units and orbital sensor sweeps, this drogue was state of the art. He also had the physicality of the drone itself; which hung in the air over the 'Zone, its display rigging now showing a looping advertisement for ChowPooch™, a locally produced pet food of dubious nutritional content.

A smile crossed Rashid's face. His fingers tapped in the commands just as soon as the idea entered his head. This would take a degree of luck, and no small amount of skill. A password here, a systems intrusion there, and he would have the solution he sought. All he had to do was crack the UNSC network.

 _Again._

Refuge in simplicity. Rashid's smile blossomed to an outright grin.

This was going to work.

"This is never going to work."

Rebecca's words hung in the closed cabin of the 'Hog, the only other sound the ticking purr of the idling engine. She was perched on the back seat, peeking out between Watanabe and Fenton, who sat up front. Murphy fidgeted in the back seat beside her, evidently uncomfortable in the EMT uniform he'd pulled on. It was too stiffly starched, he had complained. Watanabe silenced him with a withering scowl.

The only one without a uniform was Fenton; who still wore the ash-cooked clothes he'd on earlier. His leg was in a bad way. The biofoam had set poorly, primarily from the strain of the previous firefight. While it had sealed adequately, its texture was discoloured, and flaked to the touch. As a temporary measure it would do, but Fenton needed proper medical attention, and fast.

There remained the small matter of extricating themselves from a quarantined area.

Ahead lay a checkpoint. It was one of three facilitating vehicular traffic to Argjend City. Only right now it didn't look very forthcoming. The checkpoint was framed around a blocky concrete structure, it top laced with loops of concertina wire. It looked for all the world like an ancient pillbox, ripped from some primitive 20th century war. Around it were an array of metal police barriers and heaped sandbags. Rebecca could see why the New Cadiz refugees felt persecuted. Martial law had not been subtle. Neither were the containment protocols General Stipe had imposed six months ago.

"Is anyone else nervous?" Rebecca asked meekly, "Because I'm nervous."

"We're not exactly driving a regulation ambulance here, Murph." Fenton agreed.

It was Watanabe who responded, cold and focused as ever.

"Civilian volunteers often make do with what they have. With all the fallout from the 'Surge last year, there's all kinds of make-shift operations." Watanabe said, her hands on the wheel; her eyes never leaving the traffic ahead of her. "Seen more than a few back alley docs in my time here. It's a goddamn industry."

"We'll be fine." Murphy simply said, his eyes fixed on the swarm of police around them. She could see the spy was nervous. The muscles in his jaw were bunched, and he kept patting the pocket where his pistol was concealed in the loose folds of his overalls.

They were third in line. APD officers in full riot gear were running a sweeping broom under the cars ahead. They were impassive; armoured turtles in deep navy armour. Their faces were equally impersonal; hidden behind opaque visors that reflected the world back at itself. Many carried submachine guns, even the occasional assault rifle. Forming a corridor approaching the mouth of the checkpoint were two lines of riot police, standing behind matching barriers that separated the disenfranchised from the much put upon police. The officers stood shoulder to shoulder; impervious, unyielding. There was a palpable friction in the air, and as the sun grew hotter, tensions would likely flare in kind. Now and then the lines of police would sway, as though caught in a shunting gust of wind. Bottles tinkled and cans thudded against plastic shields. Another riot was inevitable.

Rebecca twisted about in her seat, taking it all in; petrified. This was the type of situation she read about on the news over a morning coffee. A front row seat was closer than she'd ever like.

To the left, snuggled up against the perimeter wall, was an APD Warthog; open-topped, bedecked with armour plating and mounted with a riot hose. It panned over the teeming crowds pressing in on each side of the checkpoint.

The Warthog ticked forward. Second in line now.

"Not long now and we'll be out of this hole," Murphy said, quietly unshipping his sidearm and checking the slide, slow-dragging it with a muted click. He slipped it back into his overalls. "Still, be ready to improvise."

"Speaking of which," Watanabe replied, "Is there a back story to these uniforms, Sir?"

Murphy handed forward a fake ident-card.

"You're now Fumiko, a volunteer for one of the Western District's clinics."

That got a weary guffaw out of Fenton.

"Congratulations, Fumiko. You're a living saint."

Watanabe simply gave him the finger.

"No sympathy for the injured?"

"Can't be injured if you can't breathe, Mike."

Fenton didn't get a chance to respond.

The officer in charge waved them forward. His visor had been pushed back on to the top of his bowl shaped helmet. A grizzled man, two chins and a generous nose. He had that look about him, the look of a drill sergeant. Definitely ex-Navy, though gone to seed. He sauntered over, his heavy armour lending him a John Wayne swagger.

Heavy gauntleted hands rapped on the glass. Watanabe buzzed the window down, offered an anxious smile.

"Ident-Card and registration." The officer huffed, leaning into the cab.

Watanabe produced a card smoothly. The others in the car mimicked her ridiculous smile: the very picture of model citizens. The officer swiped it against the boxy TACPAD buckled to his forearm.

"Where you headed?" he asked, studying the credentials, lips pursed.

"Western Medical. Clinic Three. Stern here took a round in the leg. Gang stray."

"He alright?" the officer eyed Fenton suspiciously. The fires from the warehouse had matted Fenton's beard to his face. His white eyes bulged out, stark white against his olive skin. He really did look like shit.

"Biofoam needs a re-patch, but he'll live. One of the stacks went up in flames in the fighting. We pulled him out."

The officer nodded, apparently satisfied. He handed the ident-card back.

"You're good citizens. Which makes you about the only good citizens I've seen all morning. Roll out. Gonna be more bodies to pull out of here by sundown."

With that the officer banged his fist on the roof of the car twice, before stepping back and waving them through. Rebecca flushed with relief. They had made it.

As they drove off, passing into the streets of the comparatively civilized Western District beyond, there was a chorus of nervous giggling filling the cabin.

None of them noticed the small tracking device affixed to the top of their car.

The officer reached up to the com unit strapped to his chest armour, toggling it.

"McBride? It's Cox. Two females, two males, one injured. Just like the orbitals said." The swarthy officer murmured, "Marker is placed. Good hunting."

* * *

Damien lost sight of Rebecca's tracks in a wide intersection, not a half klick away from the warehouse. The footsteps were jumbled, mingled with the trampling stampede of the crowds that had fled the area hours before. His VISR panned over to thermal. The intersection was awash with recent activity, but it was an indecipherable, churned mess. The sun was rising steadily, amber light creeping over the high-rises and spreading onto the shadowy streets below. _Time to move_ , he grimaced.

Damien retreated to a perch high atop one of the more visibly crumbling stacks, his thruster jets flaring as he scrambled from one handhold to the next. At the top sat a long abandoned pigeon loft; empty but for the wind-rattled cages and occasional rustle of a drifting feather or two. Stray bullet holes had punctured the sheet metal on one side of the make-shift tower.

Morning sunlight speared through them as Damien sat himself down; the running lights on his armour the only other light source in the gloomy shade. He resembled an adult in a treehouse, such was his bulk. He waved a hand over his wrist-guard.

A holographic TACPAD sprang to life, casting a reflection against his opal-mirrored visor.

He was close to the 'Zone's perimeter. Not far from him was an interdiction checkpoint, vetting emergency services coming in and out of the area. The warehouse sat behind him to the southwest, a thick pall of roiling dark smoke rising up from where fires still burned. It would be midday before the emergency services had the situation under control.

The footsteps had been leading closer to the edge of the 'Zone. It stood to reason that Rebecca and her rescuers would try and slip away into the wider city. If they did, Damien was going to have a hell of a time finding them.

Damien switched the TACPAD off and stared out over the city. Beyond the row of stacks lay the perimeter wall separating the 'Zone from Argjend proper. The original city was comparatively monochrome to the red-rusted eccentricity of the 'Zone's favelas; the polished windows and smooth granite every bit as silver and polished as the city's name suggested. The buildings were all manner of sizes; there were smaller stone buildings, luxury abodes for those with a taste for more classical times; there were hyper-scrapers and sky-bridges. Grav-lines snaked between buildings, and early morning traffic beeped and smouldered in the rippling heat thrown up by a countless sea of cars braving the midweek grind.

Overhead, advertising drogues sailed in the air above the city; venerable and serene compared to the bustling orbital traffic filtering in and out of the Starport in the far distance. Above it all, the Carpathia hung, an ominous brush of silver in the bright blue sky.

Damien cocked his head to one side, his helmet clicking with the gesture.

One of the airships was way off course.

"What the hell?" Damien frowned, standing up. He had to half-stoop in the cramped space, such was his height.

The airship itself was nothing strange; it was small, as drogues went, its chrome hull winking a brilliant silver as it caught the early morning sun. Marketing drogues weren't unusual, not in a city of this scale. What was unusual was what the drogue was now displaying.

An angry, mongrel creature filled the wide display screens: its head a roaring lion, expelling flames; its tail a coiling serpent, its back arched, fangs glistening. Damien recognised it immediately. This was not difficult. After all, the very same creature now decorated his own armour.

And beneath its clawed feet, writ large for all to see, a com frequency.

Damien patched in immediately.

"This is Chimera One. Identify yourself." Damien said, voice neutral; one hand pressed to the side of his helmet.

There was a pause as the message was parsed through some kind of screening filter. After a moment, a familiar voice responded, laced with some degree of incredulity.

"Damien?!"

Damien stood up so quickly his helmet cracked against the ceiling. Pigeon dust sifted down all around him.

"Rash?! What the hell is going on? What the hell are you doing with an airship?!"

"Long story, boss. Time's short, so I'll explain on the way." There was a brief pause, "I'm not recognising your suit I.D. Give me access and I'll be able to interface directly."

Damien did so, tapping in the requisite permission code.

A waypoint blinked to life on Damien's HUD. He had been close. Rebecca was two blocks away.

"I'm reading a transponder signal emanating from their transport vehicle. It's new, wasn't there before."

"Which means?"

"Which means somebody is tracking them. And you're going to have to move quickly."

Damien was already moving, pulse jets flaring, his footfalls gouging entire chunks out of the slate tiles; tearing across the rooftops with blinding speed.

* * *

As crime dens went, it was remarkably opulent.

The floor was polished stone; a deep amber marble whorled with strands of white. The walls were bedecked with golden mirrors. Around him, large, thick columns rose up toward the ceiling; ornate, gaudy in the extreme. Arch covered balconies on the mezzanine looked down on him with shadowy eyes. The Russian mob was never known for its sense of subtlety. This was Pravda; expansive, luxuriant, gold-chased; one of the most prestigious establishments in all of Argjend's Central District.

It was early morning. But for the guards watching him, Elias Becker was alone.

Becker waited in the lobby of the restaurant, hands clasped behind his back. The well suited gentlemen standing either side of him wore loose fitting jackets, with uniform hooded brows and fish-eyed stares. They were large men, chosen for their size and capacity for intimidation. They eyeballed him unapologetically, oozing physical menace. For his part, Becker regarded them calmly, entirely at ease.

The maître d' was a considerably less intimidating specimen. A small man, with equally small hands that seemed perpetually clasped together; elbows flared out like coat hangers. His smile was all teeth and so very tremendously white. Becker studied him from the bottom of his nose distastefully. He hovered a full head and shoulders taller.

"Good morning, Sir," the little man beamed up at him, "I'm afraid we're not due to open for a number of hours, but would you like to make a reservation?"

"I'm here on business, not pleasure."

"I see. Well we would be delighted to cater for corporate bookings. Our availability is limited for the next two weeks-"

"How is your availability right now?" Becker cut him off sternly. The two goons watching him bristled. Nobody came in here and threw their weight around like that. Nobody.

Becker leaned closer to the little man. His eyes were the palest blue, an almost unnatural colour. He'd had gene-work done, and it showed.

"Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I have business with your master, Mr. Khulov. I understand he's here, twice a week, at this very hour. I would speak with him. Immediately."

At that the pint sized man went entirely pale, and looked over at the henchmen for guidance. Both men studiously ignored him, listening intently to their ear pieces.

"You're remarkably well informed." A new voice said.

The newcomer was a slighter man than the guards. Sharp suit, slicked backed hair, decidedly Slavic. An advisor, then. At last, progress.

"I find it my business to be." Becker extended a hand. "Elias Becker. I have pressing business with Mr. Khulov, Mr. Zolov."

At Becker's casual mention his name, Zolov could only blink.

"This way." Zolov managed, waving the man in the black coat after him.

Becker was escorted deeper into the restaurant. Beyond the main dining area, beyond the exclusive dining rooms to the rear. Becker had acquired a small train of _bratva_ in his wake as he was led deeper and deeper into the building. Eight men shadowed him now, each as big as the first two. The scale of the venue was massive.

It was rare for Becker to make such an appearance personally. Pershing would have ordinarily attended in his stead. But Pershing was dead now, and with McBride assembling a replacement response team, Becker found himself perilously short of reliable men. He would have to commit the rest of his resources, both official and otherwise, in order to buy Arrowhead the necessary time. They were so tantalisingly _close_.

Becker knew how the game worked; had been winning it long enough. Soldiers cost money. This was one of the accepted constants of warfare. You had to train them, house them, feed them; then ferry them from one planet to another and nurse them or bury them when the bullets stopped flying and the men stopped dying. It was a long term investment.

The criminal world was entirely more short term. It was like leasing a car; only the cars had pulses and pulled triggers in back alleys. This was not the first time Elias Becker had ever used proxies to achieve his ends. With Arrowhead in its final stages, he believed it might just be his last.

It would be expensive, but credits were not an object Elias Becker particularly lacked. Information was a valuable commodity, and he was a master trader.

This late in the game, the stakes were high. ONI had sent a Spartan. A particularly dangerous Spartan, though Spartans by their very design tended to be. Which meant Becker needed numbers. To date he had relied on Boss Khulov for his talents at smuggling and subtlety.

Now he needed him for muscle.

Finally, Becker was led to the rear of the building, through a set of thick velvet curtains separating Khulov's private chamber from the exclusive function rooms. Here it was all lush carpet and wood panelled doors. Soundproofed, thermal-insulated; doubtless swept for bugs and other tracing software four or five times a day. Khulov was too long in the tooth not to have developed a healthy sense of paranoia. It came with the territory.

Khulov's lair was relatively understated; barren but for a series of sprawling velvet couches, set into a central well in the middle of the room. Within this central well sat an onyx holo-table, now inert. The couches were massive, capable of housing up to twenty people in a large square.

Right now they housed just one. Flanking the side of the room were another half dozen bodyguards. None of them were visibly armed, but Becker knew that with the barest hesitation each would be armed and ready to kill. That was good. So was he.

Elias Becker smiled thinly and took a seat across from the _second_ most dangerous man in Argjend.

Semion Khulov was an immense man; sprawling and impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit. He had been a powerful man in his prime; now soft from too many years of generous living. His chin was an anvil that was steadily ceding to gravity, and his beady eyes nestled in folds of lined flesh that lent him a perpetually sour squint. There was little difference in terms of age between the two men, though Becker – straight backed, trimly kept, pale of a skin and unnervingly _precise_ \- seemed remarkably more preserved for his advanced years.

"Elias Becker!" Khulov clapped his fleshy hands together. "You are difficult man to please. Have we not done as asked? You are established now. Your cargo is secure, our business concluded."

Khulov sagged back in his chair, arms spread wide over the back of the couches. He waggled a pudgy finger disapprovingly.

"But now you make demands of me, Elias Becker. This is not so good. We had arrangements. But with these arrangements, respect."

Becker ignored his displeasure.

"I intended no slight, Boss Khulov. But I have a pressing matter that requires my immediate attention. Urgent business."

"And would this business involve the attack on the 'Zone last night?" Khulov's eyebrows knitted, head cocked to one side, "Dropships in the night, blood on the streets? This is bad business, I think. It attracts too much attention. Raises questions."

Becker, nonplussed, smoothly reached into his jacket. A dozen handguns were drawn on him in a second. He raised an eyebrow, chuckled slightly. His hand emerged from his black coat. In it was a data-chip.

Becker slid it into the centre of the table.

"What is this?" Khulov asked.

"An answer to questions raised." Becker folded his legs, his hands resting on his lap. "An advance. Ten million credits for as many men as you can give me. The best you have. For the next forty eight hours, your men are my men. There's another twenty once they've retrieved what I'm looking for."

That caused Khulov to sit up, his belly straining against his jacket. He nodded eagerly at his number two.

Zolov's hands moved so quickly the data chip was gone before Becker could even blink. Zolov slid it into the side of the holo-table.

A bank transfer washed up into the air above them. Confirmation of payment: ten million, as promised.

There was a data-file blinking in the corner of the display. Becker reached forward and tapped a button on the edge of the table. A woman's face sprang into the centre of the space. A half dozen photographs, taken over a series of weeks. Long term surveillance work, thoroughly conducted.

"This is Doctor Rebecca Pearson. Civilian contractor for the UNSC. Who she is… is inconsequential. What she _carries_ is vital. Even as we speak, my men are tracking her location. The job is twofold: kill the girl, kill her accomplices, and bring me the data. Further instructions will follow."

"Killing a UNSC contractor?" Khulov clucked his tongue, "That will be risky."

"Are you saying you won't do it?" Becker raised an eyebrow mildly.

At that Khulov waved him down.

"I'm saying this is Argjend, Mr. Becker." Khulov's teeth split his jowls in half, his hands spreading expansively, "I'm saying I won't do it _cheap_."


	11. Chapter 10: Breaking Curfew

" _Gene-modding is nothing new. It was as far back as the 21_ _st_ _century when humanity attained a comprehensive understanding of genetic sequencing. It was the 22_ _nd_ _century before we actually applied our knowledge: a tweak here, an enhancement there. They struggled to get that far: there were as many legal questions as scientific ones._

 _For all the risks, it stood to us, time and time again. The long range reconnaissance patrols in the Rainforest Wars, for instance; men and women who could stay awake for forty eight hours without the faintest sign of fatigue. Or the far-scape pioneers, the original Outer-Colonists; engineered to quietly reject the innumerable diseases encountered on the wild frontier. On their proto-augmented shoulders, the UEG was built and, with it, the UNSC._

 _There were set-backs, of course. Reduced life spans, unforeseen side-effects; growths and lesions and tumours. All manner of horrific tragedies, best forgotten. Still, progress was made. With each passing century the science improved; our methods and flesh-craft steadily refined. Finally, mankind had conquered an obstacle that had been hitherto insurmountable: its own genetic destiny._

 _ORION was the realisation of all that had come before. It had been subtle in its implementation. Increased lifespans, faster reflex times, improved adrenal response rates. I remember my first injections, aged eighteen. My scalp was still raw and bare from where the induction committee had plucked me from Boot. The scientists cooed over us, told us how perfect our genes were; how this was meant to be. They told us that while they could not make us immortal, our legacy would live forever. That ours was the first step in an exciting journey._

 _Had I known where that journey led, of what horrors ORION would spawn later, I think I would have run screaming, all those years ago."_

Excerpt from a private record, author unknown

* * *

The Chamber of Governance was a lofty title, but it suited. The vast hall sat beneath a vaulted dome ceiling, in the very heart of the Granican Parliament in Victory Square. Externally the building was all white marble and broad stone steps; a tourist attraction, such was the quality of the masonry. Nobody built wholly from stone anymore, not on Outer Colonies. It was a dignified relic, a post-card distributed on and off-planet.

The chamber itself was every bit as grand. The table was a deep, rich mahogany; circular in shape, capable accommodating fifteen of the most influential members of Granica V's government.

Today's assembly was no different. It was a who's who of major politicians; a vibrant mix of full dress uniforms and civilian attire. All branches of the local government were present. Commissioner Weldon was there, head of both the APD and a member of the Granican Security Council. He shook hands with the civilians, offering salutes to one or two of his former comrades in the colonial reserve. A former military man, bearded and well into his sixties. The old habits die hard. He wore the frocked blue of the APD, his cap tucked under his arm. It was rare to see a veteran that age.

Weldon snapped a particularly crisp salute to the next man who entered; a weathered, sag-faced man who wore every minute of the Covenant War etched across his haggard face. It was returned neatly. General William Stape had been a permanent member of the Governing Council since the UNSC Taskforce's arrival late last year. It was he who had instituted martial law six months prior; who had restored order with rubber bullets, armoured cars and marching boots. A heavy handed approach, but ultimately necessary. As the ranking UNSC official in the system, he was a key player in the room. Crushing military power would make anyone a force to be reckoned with. Stape wasn't shy about bandying it around either.

Administrator Jennings was the last to enter the chamber. She was small in stature for such a powerful presence. If Stape was the military muscle in the room, then she had the soft power side of things sown up. The entire room responded to her. Having inherited the position of Acting Administrator following her predecessor's untimely assassination at the hands of Insurrectionist agitators, it had been an easy step into a more formalised role as the effective Head of State.

Jennings had swept into power in the formal elections following the end of martial law, riding a wave of goodwill from the thousands of residents who had followed her from Crassus, a smaller colony on the furthest edge of the galactic rim.

She was in her late forties now, but the years had been especially hard on her. Power aged you, sooner than it ought to. Amanda Jennings was no exception in this. Now she was silver haired, her face lined from years of responsibility. The Battle for Horizon eight years earlier had taken much from her – a husband, countless friends, indeed the very colony itself. That she found herself in such a key position on an unfamiliar world was a testament to her fortitude as a political operator.

Jennings platform for election had been founded on three basic principles: a comprehensive solution to the refugee crisis, an end to martial law and a reinstatement of Granica V's sovereignty as an autonomous UNSC protectorate and, thirdly, an end to organised crime. Jennings was a facilitator, a negotiator and a diplomat of some renown.

Right now she was livid.

Outwardly Jennings seemed fine. She nodded greetings here and there, offering the occasional brief smile to her closer allies. But there was a crackling intensity about her. Amanda Jennings took matters concerning the Refugee Zone personally. After all, it had not been long ago when she was one herself.

She took her seat. A hush fell on the chamber.

Jennings took her time. She sat back in her chair; shoulders set, spine straight. She formed a steeple with her finger tips; tapping them together twice, with slow deliberation. As though reaching some private conclusion.

Then the Administrator folded her hands on the table in front of her and began. Every syllable was measured; carefully weighted, tested and then delivered, firm and clear. Loudly projected, precisely enunciated.

"Good morning. I want it to be made perfectly clear to everyone here that I do not hold any of you _individually_ responsible for what happened in our city last night. This is a tragedy of circumstance, born from external pressures originating far beyond the borders of this colony. Every major city has had to deal with flotillas drifting in from worlds that were less fortunate than our own. I myself arrived here on one such ship. The 'Zone is a symptom of an external malady, compounded by the destruction of New Cadiz. It is a malady I would see healed with all speed."

Jennings regarded the rest of the table steadily, her eyes moving from one face to the next. Her chin rose in defiance as a harder edge creeped into her voice.

"But that does not absolve us from our obligation to protect the people of this city. This does not lessen our failure, indeed _my_ failure, as Administrator of this colony. Under our governance the problem has been allowed to grow. Its problems have been permitted to _fester_. Last night's butchery is a _damning_ testament to our inaction."

Jennings took a moment to lick her lips before continuing. Nobody dared speak.

"Well _no longer_. The 'Zone and our frankly criminal neglect of it ends today. Commissioner Weldon, I want containment of the crowds. _Careful_ containment: we are here to help these people, not bully them."

That drew a scowl from General Stape.

"I want recovery teams rotating in the 'Zone for the next week. Food, medical supplies; whatever they need, we provide. Any production of the auto-manufactories is to be re-designated for housing. I don't care about the space considerations. The economic implications be damned. If we need to build hyper-scrapers, then hyper-scrapers it is. If it doubles the city's footprint, then let it double. We have a planet's worth of space. What we've been lacking is the _fortitude_ to properly accommodate these people."

There was applause. Much of it was heartfelt. Some of it was mere courtesy.

"Administrator." General Stape raised a hand "I believe I speak for everyone here when I say that last night's gang violence was unfortunate, tragic even. But the problem isn't one of policing, or housing; it's a question of security. We have on our doorstep an entire ghetto made up undocumented citizens, many of whom have no readily identifiable means of income. Many of whom are being steadily identified as hailing from families that have recorded Insurrectionist links. This threat _cannot_ be over-stated."

Commissioner Weldon weighed in behind him:

"I agree with the General, Ma'am. We cannot afford to simply let them loose under the grounds of pure altruism. Not without the requisite checks and balances in place. We're processing 'em as best we can, but the 'Zone for the moment is a necessary evil. I believe we should be more concerned about why it is there are so many weapons being brought through into the 'Zone. And what that requires, as I have asked for, time and time again, is a greater police budget."

It was a conservative politician who spoke up next. Cummings; the rake thin man with a widow's peak and bony jaw. A brilliant man, though calculating and oftentimes cruel for all his savvy. He was Jennings' main political opponent; a financial broker of considerable local importance. Cummings was a long term Granican, who had been steadily amassing a small fortune since the Great War had broken out some forty years prior. Now he was powerful, both politically and financially (the sad fact that these two characteristics were intrinsically linked did not escape Jennings).

Even with the crash of the local stock market last year, Cummings remained a force to be reckoned with. He had, after all, invested in the very construction companies Jennings was now addressing. His voice was a hollow rasp as he spoke.

"Each of us shares your grief for the families in the 'Zone, Administrator." Cummings spoke slowly, with confidence, "we understand all too well the challenges you yourself faced in coming to this planet. But we find ourselves balanced on a tight rope: if we rush to accommodate the needs of the influx too quickly, we stand accused of being _soft_ , and risking further refugees flooding our way from off-world. If we are seen to do nothing, then we are callous, inhuman. Now I don't propose to speak for everyone here, but I for one would rather be seen as _cold_ and _prudent_ rather than _warm_ and _foolish_."

"There's also the matter of stability."

That was General Stape again. His views on New Cadiz were black and white. To Stape, the city had been an Insurrectionst hell-hole; an ant hill to be squashed with a descending boot. An Orbital Tether landing on it was probably the best thing that ever happened to it.

"You drop that wall and let 'em in, you'll have more than riots on your hands. You'll need my boots on the ground, and next time – _and there will be a next time_ \- we _won't_ be leaving."

There it was. The overt threat; toys cast from a pram. Stape, Weldon and Cummings; a trifecta of military, police and financial power. Jennings was, in the bluntest interpretation possible, quite sick of their shit. She responded as such, her tone considerably more measured than the fury spiking within her.

"I've had quite enough of your version of law and order, General. I thank you and all your men for the service you have provided, I do; but The Great War is over. The governance of this colony is a UEG matter, to which the UNSC is answerable. I would remind you that this is an Outer _Colony_ , not a _staging area_." Jennings countered sternly, to some applause, "And I do not care for the word _influx_ either, Representative Cummings. It dehumanises an all too _human_ problem."

And on it went: Jennings demanding the same measures she'd been pushing for since her election. The vested interests staunchly opposing her every step of the way, and nothing being solved all the while. The deadlock was infuriating.

Still, they relented on certain items. The wall wasn't coming down overnight, but by the time the session ended, some three hours later, she had coordinated a relief effort that would keep the naysayers and political point scorers in check for another day. Jennings had built her platform on immigration reform; not because it was a topical issue, but because it was damn important to her. If she failed in this, then – as she saw it - she didn't deserve to be Administrator. It was as much a victory as she could have hoped.

As she exited the chamber, an immense shadow fell over her.

"Ma'am."

She looked up and smiled.

Her escort had arrived. She found it difficult to tell the Spartans apart, but this particular giant stood out amongst his peers for his sheer scale. Trident Four, Aata, was a Maori. Whatever genetic gifts the Maori people had (and they had many), physical strength and size stood out in particular.

While seldom without his helmet on duty, Jennings had seen Aata's face before, knew that it was stencilled with the tribal tattoos of his proud people. He was almost double her size. He had mentioned once that his armour pattern was known as the Enforcer type. The designation suited him. Aata carried a standard MA5B Assault rifle when on security duty. It looked like a mere toy in his hands.

"Your transport awaits you outside, Madame Administrator. The rest of the team is on standby."

"Lead on, Aata." Jennings smiled, patting him on the arm.

The Administrator and her goliath of a bodyguard strode out of the hall together, his clomping footfalls echoing in the cavernous hall. Crowds of diplomats, movers and shakers all, parted like a biblical sea before them as they made for the exit.

Watching them leave from one of the observation platforms high above was Elias Becker. He was soon joined by Commissioner Weldon.

"Do you think she's even aware?" Becker mused, drumming his fingers on the railing thoughtfully. "That she's in power because we _permit_ her to be in power?"

Weldon shook his head.

"We have the situation contained. As far as she's concerned, it's a terrorist attack. The ChatterNet and Waypoint feeds only corroborate as such."

"Excellent." Becker turned and looked at Weldon frankly, "There may be an incident in the city later this afternoon. An overspill of gang activity, that's the official word. I want your most trusted men on standby. Could be a lead on those Russian gangs you're always talking about. Doubtless the Administrator herself will be pleased."

"Of course. I'll send word immediately."

Becker smiled, pleased. Weldon was a loyal puppet. The moment Becker had contained Kaizen's digital rampage, the commissioner had belonged to him. That Becker had been responsible for the 'Surge in the first place was an entirely separate detail, one he never particularly intended to share.

"And another thing. We have reason to believe there's a rogue Spartan on the loose. One with Insurrectionist sympathies; a dangerous precedent." Becker saw the look in Weldon's eyes, "Now, now; there's no need to panic. I will ensure you receive the appropriate support via the appropriate channels, but I wanted you to hear it from me first, so you can prepare accordingly."

"Yes Sir, thank you."

"Do you remember those Chimera people? The Spartans from the tribunal last year? I suggest you have them contained. Double the guards on them. Triple them, if you can."

"Yes Sir. Absolutely Sir."

Weldon gave another salute. Becker nodded at that, patted the railing twice and strode off, a spring in his step.

There. That should be the matter settled.

Now he could get back to work.

* * *

They parked the Warthog in a dingy alley not far from the border of the 'Zone. The Clinic was an entirely different one to the one Watanabe had told the checkpoint guard. This had not been intentional subterfuge on her part: Murphy had simply been insistent that they go here instead.

Western Medical Four was a government funded medical centre, though medical centre was far too grand a title. In truth it was a back alley clinic, as good at distributing methadone to recovering addicts as it was at patching the odd bullet wound or two. Such was life in the Western District.

The place didn't seem open. There were no lights on, and any windows that they could see were ominously barred to the outside. Only the inert medical sign above the rusted doorway gave any indication that it was a place of healing.

Murphy took point. He hammered his fist on the steel door, twice.

"We're closed." A voice muffled through the door. "Come back at noon."

"Hepburn, open up." Murphy spared a tired glance at Rebecca. "It's Murphy."

"Murphy's dead. Died four years ago. Drop went bad, so they said." A note of curiosity entered the voice, "Who _is_ this?"

"The same Murphy who pulled your arse out of the fire on Crassus seven years ago. Brute Choppers. A refinery. A Scarab or two, as I recall. Also sand. Lots of sand."

At that, there was a series of muffled clicks, squeals and clacks, then one final hollow scrape as the final deadbolt was pulled.

The door was wrenched open. A tiny, age-shrunk man blinked up at them.

"Well I'll be damned. It _is_ you. They said you were dead!" Hepburn grinned toothily, though there were little in the way of teeth left. He spied Fenton and Watanabe, grinned again. "'Tan! Mikey! Great to see you! Come in, come in!"

He waved them inside, shooing at them like disobedient cats.

The clinic was every bit as dingy on the inside as it was outside. There walls were chipped linoleum, and the lights were as dim as a morgue. Rebecca could vaguely make out shelves of old medical supplies; specimen jars, antique calipers; all manner of bric-a-brac.

Mounted on the wall was a butchered MA5 assault rifle; one she'd never seen before in all her time spent in the presence of soldiers. It had a wire stock, for one. Any navigation and ammo counter had been gutted from the main assembly. The barrel was wrapped in sand-choked cloth.

"Like that? That's an MA5K – K for Crassus, we used to say. Kicked like a bastard, but so reliable! You'd pour sand down the barrel, and still she'd fire. Not the prettiest, but then we had to use what we had to hand, innit?"

That wasn't the only souvenir on the walls. Nailed to the wall were all sorts of black and white photographs – doubtless a stylistic choice on Hepburn's part. One image showed a group of sixty resistance fighters crowding around an armoured ODST. The ODST had his helmet off, and was holding a black flag with Murphy's Militia written in white paint across the front of it. She realised it was a younger Murphy; handsome and smiling.

"Different times then, different times." Hepburn sniffed nostalgically, following her gaze. There was a bit of dust in his eye.

Murphy set a hand on Hepburn's shoulder.

"Fenton's been hit, Hep. He needs medical attention."

"Right, right. 'Course." Hepburn scraped at his cheek. "Right, well firstly; let's manage expectations. I'm not a doctor."

All four of them blinked at him. Seeing their look he held up his hands defensively.

"'Ang on, don't get too upset. See, there's one in the next room. Just a minute!" Hepburn turned his head over his shoulder and started yelling. "Hey, Suz! Come out here! Got some people you need to meet!"

A door swung open. Suzy was a younger clone of Hepburn; mid-forties, and while not a handsome woman, she was considerably less scruffy than her father. She wore hospital scrubs and was evidently still prepping for the day's work ahead.

"Suz's my daughter, see." Hepburn explained, somewhat unnecessarily, "She runs the place. Has done since we got here. I'm… erm, well a bit of a handy man I suppose. Try an' help out as I can. You know, this and that."

"Security primarily." Suzy smiled patiently as she shook hands with each of them. "Suzy Hepburn."

"Brendan Murphy. I served with your father on Crassus. I don't believe we've met."

Suzy shook her head.

"I was inside the underground shelters when the invasion started. Didn't see much beyond the casualties they brought in from the Outer Wall. By the time the fighting was done, Horizon was little more than a burning shell. I spent the next few months in aid stations tending to the wounded. Then we were on a refugee ship, bound for the Granica System."

"And here you are. Good to meet you. This is Dr. Rebecca Pearson, a psych specialist with the UNSC. These two here are part of my team: Haruko Watanabe, Michael Fenton. Ex-ODST, now with Naval Intelligence."

Suzy blinked at that.

"You're a spy? Aren't you supposed to keep that sort of thing a secret?"

"These are extraordinary circumstances, Dr. Hepburn. Fenton here needs help. I don't trust anywhere else to take him. Is there somewhere he can lie low for a while?"

"'Course mate," Hepburn Senior spoke up, "My bedroom's upstairs, first door on the right. Stay as long as you like."

Murphy nodded his thanks.

"Thanks Hep. 'Tan has some medical training; she'll stay will stay with you for the duration and provide direct security." Watanabe agreed with a determined nod, "I have to get Dr. Pearson here to a secure location."

"Why?" Hepburn asked, "Here's safe as safe can be."

"It's not her safety I'm worried about, it's _yours,_ Hep. The people we're dealing with aren't the type to stop and ask questions."

"The Refugee 'Zone last night?" Rebecca spoke up for the first time, "That was them. I don't want to get you caught up in this any more than I am."

Hepburn nodded gratefully.

"Well listen, Murphy. It's great to see you. Wish it were under different circumstances, mate. You leave Fenton here with us, and we'll get him right as rain, I promise 'yeh."

Murphy and Rebecca thanked them and departed, stepping back into the alley. Neither of them noticed the small black disc affixed to the top of the 'Hog as they climbed back inside: it was a small, semi-translucent material; difficult to discern in the gloom of the alley.

They set off, pulling out onto the wide roads once more. That change in architecture around them was startling. Compared to the 'Zone, the Western District was downright civilized. Rebecca marvelled at how quickly her own standards had changed over a short few hours.

"Crassus." Rebecca said eventually, breaking the silence, "I read about it in _Explorer Monthly_ once. One of the Outer Colonies, right?"

"Yeah. Not a whole lot out there, that far on the rim. Just one city, Horizon. Mining town. Our ship, the _Anchises,_ had set down for emergency repairs following an ill-fated encounter with the Covenant in an adjoining system. Captain was dead, most of the senior command staff too. We thought we were going to sit out the war, stranded on that dust-bowl for the duration. As it happened, the war came to us."

"What happened?"

"Sangheili cruiser transitioned into the system, being pursued by a goddamn Brute Assault Carrier. This is when they'd turned on each-other, right at the tail end of things. The Great Schism is what they called it. To me it was just another shit-storm, same as any other."

Murphy paused to let a car pass before taking the next turn. Then he continued.

"The whole Covenant was coming apart, and Crassus got caught right in the middle. Elites wound up on our side, as it turned out. Lucky thing too; I don't think we'd have made it but for them. The fighting lasted a full week."

"Was it bad?"

"Hell, it was bad everywhere, Doc. Stories I could tell. But yeah, it was bad."

"And that photo back there?"

That prompted a weary chuckle from Murphy. Rebecca was struck by how old the man looked all of a sudden. Traces of grey were creeping into his dark hair. Stubble coated his jaw, dark against his pale skin.

"That was Hepburn's idea. He was a prospector, spent a lot of time with the other trackers the colony employed. I drew the short straw of being the only ranking ODST on the planet, so I had to train 'em. Hepburn's gang took to it better than the others. We formed a special guerrilla unit out of the most talented. They took to calling themselves Murphy's Militia."

"That was decent of him."

"Yeah, well they fought. Fought damn hard. Hit and fade tactics mostly – ambushes, improvised explosives; that sort of thing. Even downed a Scarab by detonating one of the refineries. But that photo? Less than a quarter of them made it out alive. I'd say less than ten are living now. So I'm not dragging him into this, not this late into the game."

Murphy went quiet for a moment, lost in memories. The morning traffic had eased somewhat into the midday; the office commuters had settled, and the only major traffic was the occasional ambulance.

"But yeah, ancient history." Murphy eventually concluded, feeling awkward. He seldom talked about the war. None of them did.

Rebecca wasn't sure what else to say, so she didn't say anything.

They idled at a red light in lingering silence, waiting for their filter.

* * *

Two blocks behind them, three vans rounded the corner, pausing at the set of traffic lights behind them. Each were HuCiv haulage trucks; non-descript but for a loading hatch and large double doors to the rear. They carried no brand marks, and their licence plates were newly minted; fresh off the machine press of the auto-factories. Red, white and black. Just another group of contractors, out for a day's work. Or so it appeared.

Inside the vans, strong men loaded sub-machine guns and pulled on masks over their heads. They wore heavy leather jackets, which bulged around their mid-sections; their ballistic vests lending them a turtle-like aspect. In the back of the vans, assault rifles rattled as magazines were slapped home, charge handles snapping ready. Urgent Russian voices psyched themselves up, barking instructions, shouting encouragement.

Riding shotgun in the lead van, Mikhail Dolidze checked his weapon. The M7 sub-machine gun was a particularly nasty piece of kit. It fired caseless ammunition, perfect for hits like this. It meant they could box the target in, hose it, and then torch the vans without having to worry about stray casings.

That their weapons were army surplus was the icing on the cake: unless the police had access to the specific shipment record the rounds were I.D. linked to, a ballistics report wouldn't prove anything other than the weapon had been machine stamped in a UNSC factory, somewhere in the galaxy. More needles in a stack of needles.

Mikhail had been an enforcer with the Khulov Syndicate for twelve years. He was not a man prone to understatement. This was proven by the extended magazine he'd customised his M7 with. It now resembled a set square, held by the opposite end of the rule. He kept it low against his lap, the magazine resting between his legs. His mask was rolled up on his forehead. He'd lower it closer to the target.

They got their filter. A green light, in a very literal sense. The red van rumbled forward, drawing ever closer.

"Unit Four, close in now." Mikhail spoke softly into his radio.

Then he pulled his mask down.

* * *

Murphy's Warthog stopped at the next junction. Another red light. They were on the very eastern limit of the Western District now. Ahead was an expansive intersection. Rising up around them were the larger glass towers associated with traditional Argjend. The shops here were respectable; neat coffee shops and parades of shops. Pristine public access terminals chimed and warbled as pedestrians passed. A mag-train roved by on the track above, humming gently. Shoppers and business people teemed on the side-walk, oblivious to the problems of the world.

Murphy frowned, looking at the rear view mirror. His eyes narrowed.

"Something wrong?" Rebecca asked, studying him.

"That's odd." Murphy began.

A red van had nosed up right behind them, almost kissing bumper to bumper. The Warthog was a monster of a truck, and dominated the road, but the van was so close he couldn't make out its occupants from the shoulders up. Murphy looked left, then looked right.

There was an identical van either side of them. One blue, another black.

Then a fourth grey van screeched to a halt in front of them, presenting its profile. Its side door began sliding open.

"Down!" Murphy roared, hauling Rebecca's head down into the foot-well.

The windows erupted inward. The Warthog rocked and trembled as hundreds of rounds raked the vehicle from four directions. The upholstery of the headrests disintegrated; shredding and ripping into component chunks. The dashboard went up, the inert NAV computer exploding in a fit of sparks. The airbags banged outward in response to the downpour, obscuring the world entirely. These too were shredded. There was a manic series of pops and hollow-thuds as the outer hull armour warped and dented from the onslaught. Headlights popped, glass shattering, electrics sparking. The roof began to sag, as the support struts holding it up groaned under the strain; bending beyond all recognition.

Murphy's spendthrift agency budget had saved their lives. His Warthog was also military surplus. Yes, it was a cut-down wreck, shorn of features and converted back to civilian use. But it still retained the armour plating where it counted. It bought them precious seconds. Nevertheless, they were out of time.

Faced with no other option, blind as he was pressed down within the seat-well beneath the flaccid ruins of the airbag, Murphy took the only option left to him. He popped the 'Hog into first gear.

And mashed the accelerator.

A Warthog is beloved by UNSC service personnel for its reliability. It is a dense, muscular brute of a vehicle. It can run for kilometres on end on its highly efficient hydro-fusion plant, relying on simple rainwater as a conversion catalyst. Its armour plating can weather all manner of small arms fire, both plasma and kinetic. Its four wheels; monstrous, almost absurdly large in size, can easily master every kind of terrain you can throw at it; be it icy snow, choking desert, or sucking muck. None of these reasons are why Marines love the 'Hog (or indeed why, it is often said, the 'Hog loves the Marines).

The M12 FAV has one other key point of utility. It makes for a smashingly effective battering ram.

The 'Hog, over-revving, squealing like a stuck pig in first gear, charged forward; impacting the lead van with all the crunching subtlety of a MAC round. The van was lifted up by the sheer force, shunted backward onto two wheels by the snarling grill guard. Then the tusk-like tow bars snagged the underside of the van, holding fast, locking tight.

The Warthog ploughed into the intersection, carrying the crumpled van up in its teeth. The van's wheels spun on empty air, having been lifted entirely clear from the road. The high pitched rev of its engine sounded for all the world like the keening cry of a mortally speared animal. That Rebecca was screaming in abject terror wasn't helping.

Murphy stomped on the brake. Rebecca lurched forward against her seat-belt, the wind yanked out of her. The van tore free, flopping onto its side and lay still, tyres rolling slowly, engine ticking as it coughed up smoke. Anyone inside was either unconscious or dead. Murphy didn't care; he had an exit now. One he intended to take.

Murphy mashed the clutch, spun the wheel, and kicked the 'Hog forward again.

It clipped the side of the up-turned van, smashing past and free onto the open road.

The other three vans closed on them, machine guns spitting. Hard rounds sparked against the back of the 'Hog.

Murphy handed his pistol to Rebecca. She stared at it, wide eyed.

"What the hell do you want me to with that?!" she bristled.

"Shooting them would be a strong start!" Murphy shot back.

Rebecca took the pistol, hands shaking, and blindly held the pistol between the two front seats. Rebecca was a respectable girl from a respectable upbringing. Highly intelligent, a gifted academic; she was an only child, and a source of eternal pride to her parents and teachers alike.

She'd never handled a pistol in her life. The prospect of firing the thing scared her as much as the vans of homicidal lunatics chasing them. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger. A dull click rewarded her efforts.

"The safety, Doctor!" Murphy yelled, exasperated, "You've got to toggle the –"

"I know about the safety!" Rebecca snarled, flicking it with her thumb triumphantly. "I don't need you to—"

"Hang on!" He cried, hauling on the wheel.

The Warthog swept around the next corner. Rebecca was yanked in her seat, her wrist smacking against the tattered remains of the head rest. The pistol tumbled from her grasp, disappearing down the backseat of the car. She bawled in frustration; high on terror and rage in equal measure. If there was one thing that ever got Rebecca into trouble, it was her temper. Today it would save her life.

"New plan!" Murphy announced, setting the wheel straight and toggling cruise control. It was, by some strange miracle, still working. "You drive!"

With that, he dove into the back seat, fishing for the pistol. Rebecca yelped and clambered across the front seat; the 'Hog wobbling as she grabbed the wheel to pull herself over. She mashed her foot on the accelerator. They were doing 160 kph in the middle of a 50 zone. Passing traffic honked and tooted reproachfully as they ripped past. That is, until the three vans flashed by, weapons blazing.

"Where the hell am I going?" Rebecca yelled, having to roar above the wind. Her hair was another obstacle entirely; a now-unholy mess that threatened to blind her at any moment. She'd managed three near-misses already. Oncoming traffic careened out of the way, smashing into the once pristine access terminals, or skidding manically to avoid a head-on collision.

"Just keep driving!" was Murphy's muffled reply. He eventually resurfaced with the handgun in his hands, a triumphant look on his face. "Aha!"

A bevy of shots smacked into the rear of the car. A brake light shattered. Murphy threw himself flat and took a breath.

The ONI operative came up in a classic shooter's position; arms extended, braced for the recoil. It was just like the shooting range. If the shooting range had wind howling in your ears, and you were standing on a platform that wobbled madly from side to side every given second. He narrowed his eyes and targeted one of the van's drivers. Fired twice. The pistol kicked in his hands, barking angry reports that were snatch-stolen by the wind.

No good. The black van's windshield spider-webbed, but the van itself kept coming. Its passenger reached forward and responded in kind with his sub-machine gun. Rebecca's manic manoeuvres saved them; the rounds send asphalt chips spitting into the air, but they failed to connect. The 'Hog's only saving grace was that they were as hard to hit as their pursuers were. But then, with automatic weapons, their pursuers didn't exactly need to be certified marksmen to put an end to this chase.

Still, their would-be assassins had miscalculated. The vans were bulk haulers; perfect for boxing somebody in, but ill-suited to a high speed chase. Rebecca was steadily outrunning them. Slowly but surely, the vans were falling back.

Rebecca would have lost them entirely had she not clipped the Genet passing through the next intersection.

The Genet is a diminutive four-seater. No nonsense, practical. It's also popular; with its characteristic smooth-sloping glazed roof-shield, the Genet is particularly noted for its mileage and relative affordability in the post-war market. Neither of these factors play in its favour when involved with a side collision with an M12 at maximum speed. The tusks of the 'Hog gouged into the rear wheel of the hapless Genet, sending it into a flat spin. Directly into the path of the oncoming blue van.

The van didn't crash into it. Not in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, two of its wheels ramped directly up onto the smooth slope, launching the van into a corkscrew jump that caused it to slam solely on its front left wheel. It crunched downward, the front section crumpling as it tumbled into a sliding skid. It rolled and rolled and rolled, its occupants rattling around like marbles in a biscuit tin. By the time it came to a trundling stop, the blue paint was scraped back to an ugly brown, flecked with chrome. Nobody emerged from the smoking wreckage.

The hapless Genet driver, a junior accountant who had no business being involved in a high speed car chase, popped the door and stood up, blinking. Realising he was alive, he began to giggle hysterically, before taking off up the street as soon as he heard the sirens in the distance. He played no further part in these events.

Rebecca, three blocks ahead by this point, realised the impact had hurt the 'Hog worse than she initially thought. They were losing speed; as the Fusion Core struggled to cope with the sheer abuse inflicted since the initial ambush. Creeping up on them, relentless, hungry, came the two remaining vans. Rebecca seethed. She had been shoved, kicked, tied up, shot at. It had been a relentless twelve hours. She pressed her foot further down on the accelerator.

They whipped under another grav-line. A train shot overhead.

The red van began to overtake them. A man held a T-shaped weapon out the window; pointed it right at her. With a feral snarl, Rebecca jerked the steering wheel to the right. Murphy yelped in the backseat as he was tossed about in the rear seat. The man with the submachine gun cracked his head against the door, his aim thrown off. Stray rounds whistled overhead.

Rebecca rammed them twice more for a good measure. The side armour of the 'Hog was dragging on the ground by this point, kicking up a spray of sparks. Murphy was trying to reach up and grab at the passenger door of the van.

"What are you doing?!" Rebecca yelled over her shoulder.

"I'm going to jack them!" Murphy explained, his fingers inches from grazing the van's door handle.

" _'Jack them'_?!" Rebecca was incredulous. She slammed the 'Hog into the van again, sending him flying back into his seat. "This isn't a movie, you'll be bloody well killed if you _'jack them'_!"

"Well what do you want me to do?!" Murphy complained.

"You're ODST! _Shoot_ the bastards!"

"Works for me!" Murphy replied, opening up on the red van at point blank range.

The gunman shrank back inside as Murphy's shots punched the wing mirror clean off. The red van sped up once more, pushing up ahead of them. Steadily it drifted in front of Rebecca. Then the rear doors kicked open. Three men crouched in the rear of it. They were pointing assault rifles square at her.

What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. At least, that's how Rebecca remembered it for the rest of her life.

Murphy was a trained Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. It was no surprise he noticed it at first. The glint of blue movement in the air caught his eye. Whatever it was, it came down at an angle, before the red van. Only it was much too high up. You would have to have jumped from the mag-line to get that high. Then it occurred to him that this was what had occurred.

Damien descended onto the road directly in front of the red van, thrusters flaring; one hand balled in a fist as he shot down into the middle of the street. He'd been crouched atop one of the passing grav-trains, leaping from line to line in a desperate race to catch up. The momentum of the train had only accelerated his thruster's velocity. His gauntlet thundered into the pavement with an almighty crack; his armour system casting off an electro-static shockwave as it split the hardpan and caught the van square in the grill.

The van went airborne. It simply flipped end over end; the grace of the flip utterly incongruous with the tortured screech of impacting metal as it caught the shockwave. Its windshield and front tyres burst. Glass shredded Mikhail and his driver. They were too busy screaming to notice. The van front-flipped over Damien, almost scraping him as it sailed overhead. Damien kept his head bowed, shoulder and knee set into the small crater he'd just blasted into the concrete; like some meditative statue from the ancient past.

Rebecca slammed the brakes. Statue or not, she was about to smear him all over the street.

Only suddenly he wasn't there. Quick as a flash the Spartan was up, spring-boarding off the on-rushing grill guard and leaping into a somersault that carried him through the air toward the black van behind. Whatever maternal sense of responsibility Rebecca felt for the Chimera subjects caused her heart to do a somersault all of its own.

The Spartan went clean through the windshield like a bullet: through the driver; slamming right through into the rear cabin and out of sight. There was a blinding strobe of gunfire as bullet holes punctured the walls and roof of the van. The black van slowed to a halt.

By the time the side door opened and Chimera One emerged, wreathed in gun-smoke and covered in the blood, Murphy's jaw was hanging.

"He jacked them!" Murphy was hyperventilating like an excitable child as he pointed. "Look! He jacked them!"

The Spartan clanked toward them, ejecting the spent magazine of his MA5, slamming a new one home. The spy stepped forward to introduce himself.

"Brendan Murphy. Naval Intelligence. Part of the ground team." Murphy extended a hand.

The gauntleted hand encased his own, as though it were a child's.

"Sierra 451. I'm your support unit. Call me Damien."

Murphy cleared his throat, regaining some of his usual composure.

"Well, thanks for the assist, Damien. Again."

"Anytime." Damien's VISR reflected Murphy's awed expression, "Now if you don't mind, Mr. Murphy, I'd really like to have a word with my shrink."

Behind them, they could hear a chorus of sirens approaching. The vehicular rampage through downtown Argjend had not gone unnoticed. Damien's helmet snapped about in the direction of the sound.

"On second thought, we need to move. _Now._ "

Murphy took over driving duties. He had to prise Rebecca's hands free of the steering wheel.

"Nice work, Doc." Murphy grinned, patting her on the shoulder. With a disturbing start, Rebecca realised the former Helljumper was thoroughly enjoying the entire experience.

The Spartan clambered up onto the backseat of the Warthog. The beleaguered suspension positively groaned under his weight.

Murphy hit the accelerator, turning off the main road and leaving the wreckage of the ruined vans behind.

"So, Damien," he asked, "You mind telling me why it is everyone in this damn city is trying to kill us?"

"Not everyone." The Spartan replied, pressing a hand to the side of his helmet.

"Rash, where are we with contacting Three?" The Spartan asked.

"Rashid's involved in this?" Rebecca gaped.

The opal visor just turned and looked at her.

"Of course. Look up."

She did.

A blimp drifted into view, powered along by grav-engines that were pulsing white-hot from overuse. Emblazoned across its sides were Chimera's unit patch.

"You stole a _blimp_?!" Rebecca was aghast. She pictured her psych-approval reports going up in flames.

" _I_ didn't." Damien held up his gauntleted hands defensively. "Rash did."

Damien reached forward and tapped Murphy on the shoulder, showing him something on his holographic TACPAD.

"Switch your com to this frequency. I haven't been able to raise Eric for hours, but for now Rash is coordinating operations groundside."

"Got it." Murphy replied. "What's the plan now?"

"Right now?" Damien turned and shot Rebecca a conspiratorial look, "We're breaking curfew."

* * *

Chidinma had spent a restless night trying to determine a means of slipping away from her gilded cage. She was stationed at The Priory; an impressive ebony tower that straddled the border of the Western and Central Districts. The lower floors were a police station; old and antiquated. Some of the doors still relied on hinges. The top floors had been a barracks for the local police. No longer. It was now designated for the exclusive use of the UNSC forces stationed in Argjend.

The name of the building stemmed from what had been there before: an old monastery, founded by some of the more pious Albanian settlers that drifted in from the Inner Colonies centuries before. No longer. The building that now stood there now was a dark obelisk, topped with landing pads for military fliers; both manned and unmanned craft.

Chidinma hadn't slept. Rashid kept her abreast of developments; piping her updates on what was going on via direct link. She was still unable to come up with an inventive solution on how to escape. There was an entire garrison beneath her, and beneath that, an entire police station. She had no doubt she could force her way out physically, but the collateral damage to innocent service personnel left a knot in her stomach.

Wanting to stay sharp and having little else to do, Chidinma decided to be as productive as she could. She spent the morning training. She left a com-bead in her ear just in case.

Chidinma donned her body suit and spent the morning sprinting around the track on the twentieth floor. The Priory was shaped as a concrete Y; both prongs supporting a central helipad, which was ringed by smaller landing pads; like petals on a flower. Around the neck of the Y was a broad running track, encased in glass. Weight lifting was out: none of the equipment the APD or Marines had was Spartan rated. She'd simply break anything she touched, and requests for more specialist equipment had long since fallen on deaf ears.

An hour and thirty miles later, Chidinma was on her way back to the locker room for a well-earned shower, when a full security team intercepted her. From the look on their faces, this was not a social visit.

Just then, Rashid's voice buzzed in her ear.

"Chidi where are you?" Rashid's asked.

"I'm busy." She murmured, "Not now."

"Chidi, this is urgent. It's Damien. He's here. In the city. He needs your help."

"I said not now." Chidi hissed.

There were three men blocking her path. They were the usual well-muscled handlers; each wore caps and headsets. Each wielded a stun baton, which they slapped against their palms with wet, meaty smacks. They carried heavy duty disabling rods, strong enough to down a horse. Another three guards closed in behind her.

"Spartan 483, please come with us." One of the lead guards said. The men wore heavier armour than was usual. Something was amiss here.

Sensing the tone in her voice. Rashid quickly pulled up her signal location. The Priory, twentieth floor. He patched into the monitor feed from one of the nearby security cams. She was surrounded. _Not good._

"Ma'am. I'm going to have to ask you to relinquish your communicator." The guard asked, his hand reaching out expectedly.

Chidinma didn't pay him any attention. Rashid was still speaking in her ear.

"Chidi, listen carefully. It's time we got you out of there. Be ready to move on my signal."

"What's the signal?" Chidi bit through gritted teeth.

"You'll know it when it happens. Head for the stairs, stick to the rooftops; I have the area monitored from above. You'll see a blimp. That's me."

"You have a _blimp_?"

"Well _technically_ it's more of a fixed-frame rigid airship, but that's neither here nor –"

"Ma'am, the communicator. Now!" The guard warned "I won't ask you again."

Chidinma wasn't moving. She stood her ground in the centre of the six men, one finger pressed to her ear so she could heard Rashid over their repeated warnings. Steadily, they closed in.

The leader of the guards sighed.

"Take her." He ordered. "Now!"

There came an ear-splitting shriek; an electronic squeal of scrap-code; so loud that Chidinma could hear it, even standing fully three metres away. The guards staggered, ripping their com-beads out, ears bleeding. Rashid's signal, in a quite literal sense.

The Spartan took her chance.

Chidinma's hand snapped out, slapping the lead guard's wrist with lighting speed. The stun baton tumbled to the floor with a rattling clank. She grabbed him by the collar and hefted him one-handed over her shoulder. The guard sailed through the air, smashing two of the men behind her off their feet. They went down in a clatter of tangled limbs. The second man recovered with admirable speed, swinging at her with the shock baton. It sizzled through the air above her head. Chidinma was too quick.

She was much too quick for all of them.

A neat handspring placed her beyond the reach of the return swing. Tumbling with the momentum, her foot scythed out, smashing the man's legs out from under him. She rolled forwards; coming up so suddenly in front of the third man it was as though she'd simply teleported before his eyes. An iron vice hand clamped onto his wrist. There was a crack as bone powdered. This baton fell too, and its owner along with it; legs kicking as he writhed about on the floor. Chidi kicked the baton up into the air with a flick of her toe, catching it smoothly. Another sharp flick of her wrist sent it whistling through the air, spinning like a Frisbee. It caught the last man square in the stomach; the jolt blasting him backward across the floor. There was a protracted squeal as he slid across the linoleum floor. Eventually he came to a stop.

Chidinma stood back and admired her handiwork. Six guards lay heaped on the floor, groaning and rolling about, winded. Then an alarm split the air. Klaxons; shrill and bleating. A full alert, city-wide.

By then she was already gone, the emergency exit door swinging on its hinges.


	12. Chapter 11: Escape & Evasion

" _Our original purpose had been the elimination of the growing Insurrectionist threat. We were fit for purpose._

 _Initial deployments had been against isolated targets operating in remote areas. Training camps, hidden networks, warehouses; packed with all manner of illegal firearms and homemade explosives. We kicked the hornet's nest, hard. Fighting escalated. Atrocities were conducted on both sides. A café bombing would be responded to with a drone strike, which in turn would lead to another mass shooting. The Memorial Day Massacre on Arcadia, the Sansar Riots; an endless cycle of violence, a struggle. I lost count of the deployments they sent us on, of the number of men and women they asked me to kill. As a fighting force, we were every bit as relentless as the taskmasters that drove us._

 _Still, casualties mounted. Of the initial ORION intake, fewer and fewer remained. More and more I found myself standing alone amidst a corps of strangers. When the restructuring order came through, I was glad._

 _They asked me where I wanted to go. At that time I spoke four languages, had racked up hundreds of hours of combat experience. I had stared into the eyes of the Insurrectionist; tasted their sweat, their fear first-hand. I wanted them to know the pain I had suffered._

 _Naval Intelligence seemed a logical choice."_

\- excerpt from a private record, author unknown

* * *

"Anything?" Eric asked for the third time in as many minutes.

Park shook his head. They had spent hours idling in orbital traffic, awaiting due process from Argjend Station. It wasn't forthcoming any time soon. He tapped the refresh button on his com-station, and heaved a sigh of frustration.

"Nothing. Whatever's blocking our signal isn't letting it up. Whoever it is; they know ONI's frequencies. You're looking at cryptology that far exceeds anything I'm rated for. Hell, who only knows what kind of tech Becker has working for him."

Eric peered out at the long list of idling freight haulers ahead. One or two appeared to be taxiing here and there, but the process was painfully slow.

"How long before they let us get groundside?" Eric asked Perry eventually.

Perry sat back in his flight seat; arms folded, his flight visor pushed back up on top of his helmet. The pilot wore a mask of boredom on his face as he shrugged.

"They're saying all groundside traffic has been suspended until further notice. We've been asked to adopt a holding pattern and await instructions. Same official line for the past six hours. Something's going on, but they're not saying shit. One thing that's been reported across the board is widespread communications outages. Nobody's been able to reach the surface to confirm anything, but I suspect things may just be kicking off groundside."

The red-armoured Spartan nodded slowly.

"Becker knows ONI's playbook. Probably wrote half the damn thing himself. He's expecting a Prowler somewhere in orbit. He wants to draw us in, to fight on his terms. Very well."

Eric clanked up behind Perry's flight seat. A large gauntleted hand landed on his shoulder.

"How quickly can you get us down to the planet?"

"Uh, well - we'd need permission protocols; a landing docket… at this rate?" Perry glanced at the taxiing freighters lining up ahead of them. "Four hours?"

"I'm not talking protocols and dockets, Warmonger. Becker's thrown down a gauntlet, and I'm inclined to pick it up."

Perry turned about and studied the Spartan's golden visor. Even with Eric's face hidden, the pilot could read the Spartan's intentions. They had warned him that Spartans were crazy. Good. Perry was never a fan of waiting anyway. Warmonger grinned and pulled his flight visor down into place.

"Strap yourself in, Spartan." Perry smiled, adjusting his own flight harness as he flicked ready switches above him. He took a firm grip of the flight stick. "This may get bumpy."

* * *

Murphy swerved into another alley, metal screeching as they scraped the narrow confines of the walls around them. Three police cruisers, Genet coupes, dressed in the blue and white livery of the APD, swung around the corner after them, sirens whooping. The APD were all over them. This was their city, their terrain. They knew the routes, the short cuts, the alleys and the likely points of interception. The outcome of police chases usually possessed a certain amount of inevitability.

But then, most perps don't have an armoured super soldier in the back seat. Damien slid out onto the rear of the 'Hog, which by this point carried more than a passing resemblance to Swiss cheese. He unshipped his MA5, taking careful aim. His armour clicked as it locked, auto-compensating for the mad vibration of the rattling 'Hog.

Damien's VISR engaged the SmartScope functionality of the rifle; the camera mounted just above the barrel auto-synching with his HUD.

Hard rounds shredded rubber and gouged metal. Damien slowly and deliberately drew his bead across the bonnet of the oncoming car. More rounds stitched across the bonnet, tracing a line across the paintwork; punctuating the APD logo with a few more added periods of his own. He snapped his finger off the trigger. The reticule flashed green as it drifted over the two officers. When it flashed blue again he resumed firing; taking the rear-mounted siren apart. A deep electronic warble announced its demise, as the lights shattered and sprayed fits of sparks. The driver panicked, ducking down behind the dashboard. His hand jerked the steering wheel. The Genet clipped a dumpster. The cruiser jolted as it spun on its wheels, scraping the wall and slowly very suddenly. The two other cars racing up behind did the rest; protesting brakes squealing before being drowned out by a crunch of metal.

The 'Hog shot out of the alley, across the street, into another alley. Nobody followed them.

Damien lowered the MA5 down, satisfied. He grabbed onto the remains of the roof as they took another hard corner, emerging onto a wider boulevard. Damien's heart sank. A wall of police cruisers bleated its way toward them. Damien counted at least eight cars in pursuit. He went to re-sight the MA5, but then lowered it; grimacing. This was never going to work.

"I have an idea." The Spartan said. Murphy didn't respond. He was too busy picking his way through gaps in the blaring traffic. They were screaming up the oncoming lane, sliding left and right. It was taking every ounce of his concentration not to ram anything. A single mistake would doom them. Rebecca was white-knuckling it in the passenger seat, flushed with adrenaline, unable to speak. Damien nodded to himself. _Time for a change in tactics._

"Rash, you got a fix on that tracker's location yet?"

"Sending a sensor pulse from your armour system now, One. Standby."

Damien's tracker flashed a bright yellow. It was right on top of their position. That was expected. The only question was precisely _where_.

"Got it." Rashid reported, "Isolating position now."

Damien watched patiently as the police cars swarmed up behind them. They hadn't started shooting, not yet. But that would change soon enough.

"Signal's coming from above you, One. Check the roof."

"Copy."

Damien clambered out the window, patting around for the tracking device. There, blending with the hull. Moulded plastic alloy, some kind of synth-metal compound. _Sneaky_. He took hold of it, prising it free. He considered crushing it. Instead, he slapped it onto his shoulder pauldron. It sat there, an ugly black lump that steadily adapted to blend with the deep blue of his armour as it mag-locked. He ducked back into the car momentarily.

"We need to lose these guys." Damien announced.

"That's your idea? Great!" Murphy replied, darting the car out of the path of yet another panicked civilian. "Wish I'd thought of it myself!"

"I'll give them something to chase. Keep moving. I'll catch up."

Those were his parting words. The Spartan crawled out the ruins of the rear window, the glass teeth of the broken frame scraping against his armour as he pulled his bulk through. He coiled on the rear of the car, eyes narrowing as he gauged the distance between the 'Hog and the closest police car.

The Spartan leapt, thrusters flaring.

He landed on the first car, the bonnet buckling inward as his knee impacted. Damien punched a hand through the reinforced windshield, gripping the steering wheel. He tugged it to the left. Hard.

Then he was moving again. His suit barked a jet of exhaust as he slammed down onto the roof, its glazed canopy spider webbing, the siren bursting from the impact. Damien repeating the process; punch, tug and jump. And again, this time yanking the wheel so hard it tore free in his hand. The three cruisers spiralled wildly on the road, into the path of their oncoming fellows.

The result was total chaos.

The Genets smashed into one another, a downtown destruction derby courtesy of the Argjend Police Department. Headlights folded like swollen eyes in a boxing match; fenders crunched and warped. Front bumpers met rear bumpers and side plating. Glass exploded. Metal screamed as it collided at high speed. One or two cars flipped and rolled, tumbling end over end. Damien had to throw himself out of the way of a spinning cruiser that had pin-balled off the back of one of its colleagues. One car ploughed clean through a public access terminal, sending a geyser of sparks high into the air. Soon the entire street was littered with discarded cars, loose bumpers and dented hubcaps.

Then there was silence, but for the plaintive mewling of dying klaxons. A severed tyre rolled past him gently, entirely divorced from its housing.

Police officers groaned as they pulled themselves free from the wreckage, broken glass tinkling as they helped each other to their feet. They were too stunned to pay Damien any notice. Curious onlookers emerged from the buildings all along the street, filming the scene with all manner of data-pads and info-slates.

Damien looked about. Murphy and Rebecca had disappeared further up the block. For the moment, they were on their own.

"Stay with them, Rash. Block any incoming surveillance you can. This tracker's going to bring all manner of hell down on my head; I'm going to need transportation."

"You didn't think this through, did you One?"

"Not even for a second, Four."

"Right. What's your current location?"

Damien looked about. But for the immediate carnage surrounding him, one street looked as sophisticated as the next. He started calling up his TACPAD, humming to himself; entirely oblivious to the twisted metal and groaning wounded all around him. He was struck by how deep into the city the chase had taken them. Even glancing up at Orbital One above, it loomed far closer than before. He could even make out the hexagonal Impact Walls that compartmentalised the city core. This close to the city's heartland, the police response was going to escalate drastically.

"Never mind, I have it." Rashid sighed. "You're close to the Argjend War Museum. Waypoint marker set."

Damien set off at a jog, leaving the devastation he'd wrought behind. He could hear more sirens in the distance, along with the whooping beat of rotor blades. He quickened his speed.

"A museum? Really? Can't you just… _hack_ me an auto-taxi or fetch me a Grav-Train?"

"It's not that simple, One. Right now you're carrying a remote tracking chip from an unknown source in hostile territory. It's going to take me some time before I can track where that chip is transmitting to. Until then, I think you need something more robust than a bloody auto-taxi."

"What are you thinking, Rash?"

"Trust me on this. There's something I want you to check out. It could prove useful."

"Alright, but for the record, if you make me go on a tour in the middle of a _police chase_ I'm going to be very upset with you."

"Trust me, One. Get to the museum. You never know, you might just learn a thing or two along the way."

* * *

There were four other Spartans awaiting Jennings when she emerged from the Parliament. They stood in a defensive pattern; a half circle facing out toward the open street. Supporting them were a platoon of Granican Secret Service; dressed in dark suits and concealed body armour. This was unusual. It was only at her most public appearances that the entire security detail appeared at once.

None of her usual aides were here. Nor was her standard escort of two police cruisers.

The Spartans had instead assembled a convoy of vehicles outside the steps of the parliament. They were hulking minivans; large enough to fit two Spartans in the rear hold. Jennings could tell that the vehicles had been up-armoured, based on how low they sat on the ground. Aata was handed an assault cannon by one of the other Spartans, Kazuo.

"What's going on?" Amanda Jennings asked, watching this exchange nervously.

Trident One, Loic Moulin, wore his armour in a standard olive drab colour pattern; a look which the entire fireteam had adopted since taking on the role of providing security for the Administrator. While the subtle differences in their armour was entirely lost on Jennings, the effect was the same: from a distance, they would be interchangeable from one another; incapable of being independently scrutinised. Only a practiced expert, well-versed in Mjolnir, could pick them apart. For a public-facing role, the colour of their armour had the added effect of resembling the famous Spartan 117. This only endeared them to the public further.

"Administrator," Loic nodded in greeting as she approached. "I'm afraid there's been security alert not far from here. Possible Insurrectionist activity. Local police are handling the matter, but we felt it prudent to escort you to a secure location until the matter is resolved."

"But I have meetings, a schedule…"

"Your aides explained as much. I'm afraid your security is our top priority, and protocol in this situation is clear. Arrangements have been made."

"I… of course." Jennings sighed. "Lead on, Loic."

* * *

Daylight blinded Chidinma as the access door burst open. The roof was a vast expanse of helipads and launch-bays. All around her, loading crews for the various police fliers hurried to and fro, prepping traffic control copters, Pelicans, Falcons; all manner of surveillance craft and drone monitors. It the top of the ant-hive, and right now its workers had been stirred into action. The city was on maximum alert. The crews were so busy enacting this alert that nobody noticed her at first. Chidinma looked about, shielding her eyes from the sun as she searched frantically for Rashid's blimp.

There it was. Drifting at least a half mile from her.

Chidi tapped her ear-piece.

"Rashid, I see it."

"Good, get over here, quick as you can."

"Where are the others?"

"Mobile. Very mobile. You're going to have to play catch up, and I'm afraid Damien's antics have me a bit preoccupied. Do you think you can manage on your own?"

"Of course."

The door behind her slammed open. A small army of MPs barrelled through, tripping over each other in their haste. Chidinma broke into a dead sprint; leaping over packing crates, ducking beneath copter wings and dodging past bemused loading crews who hadn't quite got the memo that the Spartan was to be apprehended at all costs. One or two read the situation correctly and tried to tackle her as she darted by. She either side-stepped them or vaulted clean over them. She ran flat into one burly loader, who was smashed bodily aside for his trouble. She didn't break pace, not even for a second.

"Rashid!" Chidinma shouted into her mic, "On second thought, I'm going to need an exit! How do I get off this damn roof?!"

"Western side, to your left." Chidinma shifted direction, "No, your other left!"

Chidinma turned, ducked beneath the landing fin of a parked Falcon. There was no time to steal a ship. There was no guarantee that any of the craft here would be fuelled or prepped for take-off. No time to check either. The net around her closed tighter and tighter. So she ran for the edge of the landing pad, some thirty guards bounding after her. Their heavy boots slapped against sun-baked concrete as they struggled to close an ever-widening gap.

Fast as she was, Chidinma was quickly running out of room. The edge of the landing pad loomed ever closer.

"You're going to have to jump!" Rashid warned.

"To where?!" Chidinma

"There's a building across from you, Chidi. A slight drop; I would advise speed."

 _Blind faith too_. Chidinma breathed deep as her toes reached the edge of the platform. The wide city street loomed before her; a vast concrete chasm separating the Priory from the next building over; an office block; smooth-polished stone, engraved with corporate logos. Chidinma didn't hesitate, not for a second. At the last second, the ball of her foot pressed against the edge of the landing pad, her toes curling as they found purchase. She jumped.

A slight drop, Rashid had said. It was a thirty foot drop onto hard concrete. Even with a rolling tumble, the force of the impact drove the breath from her, her body suit not quite ablating the full sting against her skin. Had her bones been any weaker she'd have been pulped. Augmented and insulated in a bodysuit as she was, it merely stung like a bastard. As quickly as she rolled she was up again, transitioning into a dead sprint. The men chasing her skidded to a halt, high above; arms held out to stop each other from careening over the edge. She hurdled an air-exchanger, not slowing for a second.

Chidinma leapt to the next building, silently thanking the city's planners that the next jump was comparatively level. Another thirty foot jump from roof to roof. Surely a world record for a non-augmented. Standard practice for a Spartan. Chidinma hit it at speed, cleared the gap comfortably.

A police pursuit Falcon rose up before her, rotors bristling. Its crew barked something unintelligible at her over the PA system. Chidinma turned and fled in the opposite direction, weaving between steam pipes and air handling units. The copter buzzed overhead, swinging about. The chop-wash of its blades send a cloud of dust and loose discarded paper up into the air. Chidinma squinted as grit blew into her eyes.

The police crew finally got a handle on the PA system's volume control.

"This is the APD! Surrender yourself immediately and you will not be—"

Chidinma was already taking off. A chorus of broadcasted swearwords chased her as the Falcon tilted forward in pursuit.

She ran out of roof awfully fast. The concrete ledge fed into a long downward slope; all clear and polished solar-reactive glass. The slope ran the entire face of the building, terminating in a raised roof some three storeys above ground level. Some kind of conference centre or atrium was below. It was filled with people, tiny at this incredible height. Chidinma folded her arms across her chest and jumped.

The fabric of her bodysuit flexed as it adjusted to the friction burn of the sliding descent. Support joists whipped past her as she dug her heels in, trying to arrest her speed. People in the atrium below heard the squeal of nano-fibre fraying against plate glass, marvelled at the human-shaped rocket shooting downward at speed. They gasped as they saw the Falcon swoop into view, rotors whipping the air. Hands clamped to mouths and smartphones lit up, recording it all. The footage would make the nightly news. It would go viral with underground free-running groups long before then.

Chidinma's slide bottomed out on the lower plateau. She rolled to her feet, scrambling over to the edge of the building; leaping across to the next apartment block and clinging onto an external fire escape. She pulled herself over the railing with a barely suppressed grunt; footfalls ringing as she clanged her way upward once more. Below her in the plaza, police cars slowed to a halt, horns blaring to clear the bemused crowds gawking up at her. The Falcon stayed with her, turning to present its side profile. A police shooter stood ready with a high-powered rifle, awaiting a signal. In the distance, Chidinma could hear more rotor blades reverberating, echoing against the high buildings all around her. More were coming.

A tendril of panic crept through the Spartan's belly. She had no armour, no weapons, and the entire city was closing in.

Unless something changed, and fast, this particular police chase was only going to end one way.

* * *

The two men stood on a platform in the deepest basement of Argjend Police Headquarters; an august building that adjoined the Granican Parliament. Crisis Control was an emergency command centre for Priority One alerts. It resembled a launch control station for a space station. Row upon row of monitors lined the room, set into wells in the floor separated by a central walkway.

Dozens of police controllers manned the stations, murmuring instructions to police units all across the city. A chattering hive mind, coordinating a single, cohesive response to the unfolding crisis.

Above them was the platform holding Commissioner Weldon and his guest, General Stape.

"Anytime you want, I can have boots on the ground." Stape was offering, "Marines, Army; you name it, it's there."

"This is a police matter, General. We have it covered."

They both watched the footage coming in from the police surveillance choppers; observing as Chidinma scurried from rooftop to rooftop. Some three Falcons now shadowed her.

"With the utmost respect, Commissioner, I don't believe you do. That right there is a Spartan. Born from decades of genetic research, military training and cutting-edge physical augmentation. They are the very best at what they do. I urge you to reconsider."

Weldon tilted his chins up defiantly, visibly swelling.

"We have a fix on their locations, based on solid, reliable intel. This woman will be apprehended soon enough. The primary suspect is bound for what appears to be the Argjend War Museum. It's a large structure, but one we can contain. The situation can and will be handled in short order: I have SWAT units inbound from every major district. I don't care how tough these Spartan bastards are: they're not going to walk away from this. We'll take care of your strays, General. You just sit back and watch."

At that, Weldon stepped away, pacing up and down the walkway, barking instructions at the various controllers that lined the crisis centre. Stape could sense the pressure the commissioner was under. His entire power base rested on the APD demonstrating they had the ability to secure domestic threats without direct UNSC interference. There could not be a repeat of six months ago.

Left alone on the observation platform, General Stape activated his private com-link. Local politics be damned, Spartans were military hardware. That made them _his_ jurisdiction.

"Get me Fireteam Platinum."

* * *

Murphy swung into a cobblestone tunnel beneath the Central Grav-Line.

This new voice on the com-line, Rashid, as he called himself, knew the city as well as any mapping AI. Every turn he advised Murphy took. Left, right, straight ahead, right again; an un-ending sequence of shifts and feints. Eventually Rashid told him to pull into an alley and kill the engine, and so he did. A dozen cop cars blew past, sirens blaring indignantly.

"I tricked their GPS units." Rashid explained, his voice tight from the strain of tracking so many situations, "They're now chasing a freight truck bound for the Starport. Ditch that car and stay on the line. An old friend of mine needs my help."

"Copy. Thanks for the assist."

"Anytime. My best regards to Doctor Pearson."

The line went dead. They were alone for now.

Murphy helped Rebecca out of the Warthog. The 'Hog sagged on its damaged suspension. The poor truck was on its last legs; now held together by little more than duct tape and wish fulfilment. Murphy felt a pang of sympathy for it, gave it a pat on the side. The old beast had done its job, and done it well.

"Now what?" Rebecca asked, pale but determined. She was coping remarkably well for somebody who had just survived a high speed chase and an attempted assassination attempt hours earlier.

Murphy opened the glove compartment. Inside was a thermite ignition pack; used for materiel denial ops. He primed it and set it down in the foot well. Soon crackling flames engulfed the entire Warthog. They didn't stay to watch it burn. They were already moving quickly, leaving the roaring inferno behind; the flames licking high and casting dancing shadows against the dark alley wall.

"Now we find somewhere to lay low. Damien's bought us time. It's up to us to find out what's on that disc you're carrying, and why they're willing to tear the entire city apart just to get it."

* * *

Khulov received the bad news calmly. He was running four criminal empires on four separate planets. One did not reach that level in the game without developing a cool head.

His first question was pointed.

"Where is Becker?"

Zolov simply shook his head. Beside him stood Mikhail. The man's face was in ribbons, and patched poorly with swabs of dubiously applied biofoam, but he'd managed to limp away from the crash. He was the only one that had. The rest were either dead or in police custody.

"Nobody's seen him, Boss. None of our guys in the inside know anything about him. It's like he doesn't exist."

Khulov considered this. He took a sip of whiskey from the tumbler in his hand, mulling it over.

The men would be traced back to him. They were universally males of Eastern European descent, with extensive conviction rates linked to organised crime. Khulov knew a setup when he saw one. This was unacceptable. And yet there had been no formal response from the APD, at least not yet. That meant whatever was going on had yet to be resolved. There was still a reckoning to be had.

"And the police?" Khulov asked.

"Moving en-masse toward the Central District. Our spies are reporting a mass of armoured cars descending on the last known location of our original target. The Priory is on full alert. It's a mess, and it's only getting worse."

Khulov finished his whiskey. He set the tumbler down on the onyx table in front of him. His decision was made.

Becker was ex-UNSC. The lab equipment they'd brought into the city for him confirmed as much. Nobody fooled around with equipment that sophisticated unless they were involved in high-grade genetics research. And nobody used Khulov unless that particular research was less than legal.

Khulov had been around a long time. He intended to be around for longer still. Something in his gut told him to get away from here, to run and run far.

But Argjend was his city. If there was to be a reckoning, it would be on his terms.

"Send word to the men. I want everybody armed and prepped. Everybody. Mirabeau's men, the Grocer, the East Side Serbs. If they can hold a gun and take orders, I want them out there, looking. The vehicle we were chasing, I want it found. I want the people driving it brought here, to me."

Khulov looked at Zolov and Mikhail. The old Khulov was back. It had been months since he'd been this fired up about anything.

"Elias Becker paid us ten million credits to take this work on, another twenty to finish it. I expect that there are those in this city who would pay double for his head. We need leverage. So find these escapees, and bring them to me."

Khulov stood up. He cut a far more impressive figure standing up. He smouldered in a cold rage.

"And spread the word; the man who brings me the location of Elias Becker can consider themselves a _personal_ friend to Semion Khulov."


	13. Chapter 12: Misdirection

" _It seemed the universe had cultivated a sense of humour while I toured the stars._

 _My first assignment with ONI was to Section III, serving in a direct capacity as a field agent. Our role was to document potential candidates per Dr. Halsey's screening criteria and, when the time came, to secure and facilitate the replacement of a chosen candidate. Guarding the flash clones... that was the most unsettling thing. So new to this world, so accelerated and confused and fragile; thrust into a world that would not have them beyond the briefest, darkest spell._

 _It was only later when I saw what the subjects themselves would become._

 _Did it bother me? Abducting those children, watching first-hand as they were injected, cut-apart, and pieced back together as something more? The UEG was weakening, its threads fraying at the very edges. We were losing a war; the tide of which I, for all my enhancements and training and sacrifice, had failed to turn. I had my doubts. Of course I did. I am, after all, human. But I am nothing if not a pragmatist._

 _For all my misgivings, this would be a positive step forward, a red letter day. The Spartan II's would succeed where we had failed. Order would be restored, and the UEG would be as it once was: unified, secure, safe. That's what I told myself at the time._

 _I think I almost believed it too."_

\- excerpt from a private record, author unknown

* * *

The Condor shot down through the cloud cover, streaming great fluffy contrails in its wake. In the cockpit, Perry, Eric and Park held on for dear life. The two humans were strapped in. Eric had mag-locked his boots to the floor, and was bracing himself against the hull with both hands.

Orbital Control was not impressed by their antics. Even less amused was Starport Access Control:

"Unidentified vessel, please return to your original course. Repeat: please return to your original course or you _will_ be fired upon."

"Do you think they're serious?" Park managed through gritted teeth. G-Forces moulded his cheeks against his teeth.

"I really don't see them -" Perry started to reply.

A rail-cannon shot whickered past the Condor, skimming it. The entire hull shuddered as proximity warnings bleated. Perry winced, his tune abruptly changing.

"- _missing_ with a second shot!" Perry panicked, "Engaging stealth systems now!"

The Condor faded from view, vanishing from all known systems. In the air there was but the faintest distortion, as though somebody had painted varnish on the air itself.

The stealth drive was a smaller model of the cloaking system ONI Prowler vessels employed. The D81's version was only functional for a limited time window; to give Spartan operators and other commando teams a quiet insertion in hostile environments. The stress on the engine core was too much for sustained use. That meant Perry had to make the most of it. He twisted the flight stick, sending the D81 into a spiralling cork-screw dive. Another two warning shots lashed out, cleaving sky but little else.

Eric left the flying to Perry. The Spartan was too busy monitoring groundside comms traffic. By all accounts the city was on the verge of outright civil war. He appraised the situation as quickly as he could. News reports, all manner of data that had been blocked from the ships in orbit, fired into his com-feed. It was information overload. Still no sign of Damien.

"Get us down to street level." Eric ordered.

Park's stomach lurched as Perry levelled the Condor out, swooping into the canyons between the buildings. They were passing over the Refuge Zone; Damien's last known location.

A full scale riot had kicked off in the hours since Damien made landfall. Water cannons slammed men and women off their feet. Baying crowds surged into walls of plastic shields, crashing against them like waves upon a sea wall. Bricks and bottles and cans flew in the air; outraged confetti. Columns of thick black smoke rose up into the sky from unattended fires across the district. Mustard coloured tear gas lingered in the air. The Condor blew through them all, silhouette wobbling as it shot overhead. The seething masses were too preoccupied to notice.

"Sierra 451, do you copy?" Eric was transmitting. He was getting nothing over the standard ONI channels. He switched to wide-band, scowling at the urgent yelling filling the emergency broadcast channels.

 _Damnit, 451; where are you?_

Perry's wingtips brushed the buildings either side, as he kept one eye on the stealth drive's energy core. They weaved between skyscrapers; looping in and out as some streets came to an end, ducking back into the urban canyons as soon as they could.

They had just under fifteen minutes before the stealth drive failed. Then the entire city would be on them.

That was when Park noticed it. The sight itself was not unusual. What it displayed stood out like a sore thumb. He knew each of the Laconia sigils intimately, had designed many of them himself.

"Uh, Eric." He pointed at the blimp in the far distance. "Does _that_ look familiar to you?"

* * *

The crowd's murmurs of concern became shouts of outright panic as Damien thumped up the stairs of the Argjend War Museum. Ordinarily, the sight of a Spartan in a public setting would prompt whispered excitement and awed pointing, even some cheering; but by now Damien was dented, scorched and stained with dried blood. Combined with the city-wide alarms blaring from the rooftops, he didn't make for a particularly inviting sight.

The crowds fled in droves, streaming down past him like rats from a sinking ship as he steadily ascended the stairs in the opposite direction. Damien's sensor suite automatically ceased registering the civilian tags in the area; instead prioritising targets with an identified UNSC/APD signature. Those were closing in on his position. By the time he reached the atrium, the Spartan was alone; a mighty figure rendered tiny by the vast chamber. He knew the silence wouldn't last.

Damien peered up at the cavernous ceiling, taking in the amazing scale of the space. Suspended by heavy cables across the ceiling was a large lander of some kind, an antiquated colonial exploration ship. Damien's eyes narrowed and his VISR zoomed in reactively. _Argjend I_ was stencilled across the ship's dusty side.

The floors were polished stone, the walls mutely lit. Around him, down-lit glass cabinets held all manner of replica Covenant weapons and de-activated UNSC equipment. There were dummies of UNSC marines; each showing the steady evolution of the dress uniform over the war's thirty year history.

Then there was the map of the UNSC Colonies, set into the floor. Red X's marked planets glassed by the Covenant, complete with time stamps. There were far more X's than Damien cared to count. He spied one by the toe of his boot, and stopped.

Hibernia. The planet Quint Adams, his adoptive father, had tried to build a life for them on. Quint had tried to hide him away from ONI, to shield him from the harsh life of a Spartan. Damien grimaced and moved on, armoured boots treading heavily over the inset-display.

This wasn't the time for bad memories. Not now.

Not with that many contacts incoming.

* * *

APD SWAT teams click-twisted gas masks into place, prepping magazines and checking helmet filters. Beetle-like in their carapace armour, they were the APD's go-to taskforce for domestic issues demanding an armed response. Armoured cars trundled down the road, impassive assault teams clinging to the sides. The antennas on their backpacks jutted up; metal stalks that swayed in the wind like strands of corn in a stiff breeze. They were veterans of the war for the most part; retired service personnel who had since passed the rigorous training demands of the APD's Hostage Rescue Academy. That five full teams had been called in from five separate districts was overkill by anyone's measure.

Behind them, police cruisers rolled down the street in massive convoys; a sea of blue and white cars with flashing red and blue lights. If you weren't containing the riots in the Western District, then you were inbound to the Argjend War Museum. They were to form a perimeter while the tactical teams conducted their operation.

At the far back of the convoy, Detective Greggs swore as he fumbled furiously with his own tac-vest. His partner Edgerton was driving, as serene and smooth as ever. Edgerton, ever prepared, had the foresight to put on his ballistic vest before getting in the car. He chuckled at Greggs' frustration.

"You see you know what your problem is, Greggs?" Edgerton began. "You're too damn angry, all the damn time. If you tried relaxing, you might just find this detail beats the hell out of catching murders in the Western District."

"We're Homicide, Edgerton; since when have you ever discharged your firearm in the line of duty?"

"Twice actually." Edgerton replied mildly.

"Yeah? Well I never did. Leave that shit to the _moto_ SWAT meatheads, is what I say. I'm perfectly happy running murders."

"Relax man, we're gonna pull hazard pay out of this one. Nice little bonus come the end of the month. Easiest thirty minutes you'll spend all week."

They pulled up outside. The strike teams had already bustled forward, equipment jangling as they snaked toward the Museum in slithering lines of deep, black armour; knees bent, weapons raised.

Damien was halfway through the museum when he opened his com.

"This is all very fascinating, Four, but you mind telling me what I'm supposed to be looking for?"

"Head down the back, Damien. End of the hall."

Damien padded deeper into the museum. Flanking him on either side of the chamber at regular intervals were stone plinths, inscribed with key dates from The Great War.

The next installation triggered an automatic response in Damien; muscle-memory flinching from years of hypnotherapy on Laconia. He released his breath and lowered his MA5.

More dummies, this time of Covenant species; from the diminutive Grunts to the clanking, thunderous Hunters. The Elite model nearly had its head blown off when it moved; leering and snarling, mandibles flaring. Damien chuckled to himself and shook his head, moving past. The Elite wortled in response.

There it was. The target marker Rashid had placed sat atop an exquisitely kept Brute Chopper, which sat at an aggressive tilt on a raised dais. The vehicle had been lovingly restored by the museum's curators; polished to a mirror sheen. Perhaps too lovingly: there was a significant energy signature dormant on Damien's outer scans. With the right boost, the vehicle would be back online; snarling and ready for action.

Behind it stood a large window, overlooking one of the larger freeways encircling the heart of the city's heartland. It was quite the drop.

"Disabling security systems…" Rashid announced. " _Now_."

A niggling humming sound in the background petered out. Damien stepped up onto the dais, circling the bike, running his hand along its cool chrome skin. He stared at its controls, the embers of old rotational training trying to discern which switch did what.

"Place your hand on the main control core."

"The round depression in the middle?" Damien asked, the fog of his memory slowly lifting.

"That's the one."

Damien did as he was told.

There was a jolting hum as his shield system sparked against the bike's control panel. Amber runes lit up on the dashboard. The Chopper gave a low growl as ancient systems came to life once more. Damien's own shield system surged back to full strength after a few seconds of beeping impatience.

The runes on the bike's display remained a dark orange. Damien could make out some kind of gauge, slowly filling. Rashid was studying it via Damien's helmet cam.

"The cell's charging based on the jump-start you gave it, but you're going to have to buy some time before it's fully booted up."

Just then the power went out. Recessed spot lights and lighting displays snapped off, one by one, in a series of progressing pools of shadow. Like a stage shutting down, bulb by bulb.

Damien looked around. He could hear thick-soled boots clattering across the rooftop. Breaching teams, prepping a strike action. Red emergency lights lit the floor, casting everything in a sinister half-glow. He could hear rotors thumping in the air above the museum.

"How _much_ time?" Damien asked, visor panning across the muted hallway. Sensors showed multiple hostiles stacking on various emergency exits. The building was steadily being surrounded.

"Five… ten minutes, tops. Hard to gauge." Rashid's voice said in his ear, "That bike's been out of commission for a long, long time. As for tracing the tracker, it's a little more complicated. I'm going to need some time before I can crack its encryption. Think you can manage?"

Damien unshipped his MA5, checking the ammo reader. One mag left; sixty rounds. From there he'd have to improvise. He racked the charge handle.

"Not a problem."

* * *

The two cops sat on the hood of their car, hands bunched in their pockets. Homicide police carried a certain amount of prestige in the hierarchy of the APD. The uniformed patrol officers had already cordoned off the area, and were manning checkpoints. Everything was covered. There was tremendously little for the two detectives to actually do but sit back and watch.

"So, what are we supposed to be doing again?" Greggs asked.

"Securing the perimeter." Edgerton repeated, and not for the first time.

"I mean specifically. Because half the goddamn department is here."

Edgerton just shrugged.

Greggs glanced about. The entire area had been sealed with police barriers and heavy duty paddy wagons. He shrugged, and remained where he was. Greggs watched in fascination as dozens of cops moved into position. He had to hand it to Edgerton, this _was_ more entertaining than trying to solve another dead stray in the Western.

"Here they go." Edgerton breathed.

There was a SWAT team lined up on either side of the expansive staircase leading up into the entrance hall. The men in front toted armoured shields; the men behind them ready with grenade launchers and pump action shotguns.

On the roof, more assaulters zip-lined down, huffing as their boots impacted. They fanned out, surrounding the skylights. Edgerton let out a low whistle. There had to be ten men on that roof, at least double that number hitting the main entrance. God only knew how many were clambering up fire-escapes and tertiary access points.

They followed SWAT's progress on the tinny speaker of the wide-band police scanner.

"All units, breach and clear."

"Confirm breach and clear. Standby."

This far back, there was a series of dull _crump_ noises and the sound of shattering glass. One of the SWAT troopers on the stairs raised a grenade launcher and pumped out grenade after grenade. Coiling fronds of smoke began curling up in the lobby, obscuring the world in a churning mist. Then went the concussion grenades; a deep reverberating series of bangs that Greggs could feel in his ribs.

"Go, go, go!" a brusque voice barked.

The SWAT teams vanished into the mist.

* * *

Rebecca and Murphy shied away from the main streets. They listened, ears pricking as sirens whooped by. It seemed half the city was intent on being somewhere else. Rebecca knew that somewhere, wherever it was, Damien was buried neck deep in the middle of it.

They crept over suspension bridges and down side streets, eventually stepping down a flight of steps into a pedestrianised shopping mall; an underground lot converted from one of the old air-raid shelters below Central District. The place was deserted save for an ambling private security guard, who bopped away unconsciously to the beat on his headphones. The crowds inside the cafés were all glued to the news nets, captivated by the drama unfolding across the city.

The Underpass was but one of a half dozen subterranean malls scattered across the city. Because of its central location and quirky pitch, the majority of the boutiques here were for high-end brands only. Small, expensive products hosted in small, expensive stores. The staff paid them no attention as they passed, too busy gazing at their data-pads and tablets, ensconced. Most of the doors were sealed with automated roller shutters. Business was quiet, and staff didn't want to risk the commute home with a lock-down in place.

The Underpass had weathered the recent recession well. There were wedding stores and high-end fashion units, and an expansive gym; all thumping, energetic dance beats and empty treadmills.

"Here." Rebecca remembered the place from one of her earlier excursions in happier times. It was tucked away at the end of the mall, the furthest removed from any of the staircases leading back to the surface: a technology store, where she often bought Rashid gifts before.

Surprisingly, it was open.

" _Here?_ " Murphy echoed. "What a dump."

Not every store on the Underpass was high-brow. This was a struggling electronics store, Carls' New and Used: _We Repair, Don't Despair_ ; an operation that subsisted on its ability to provide cheap repairs for ChatterPads and info-slates more than anything else. It was the kind of low-grade pawn shop you'd only ever encounter because the landlord couldn't find anyone else to take it. Murphy and Rebecca exchanged a shrug and stepped inside.

Behind the counter was a pot-bellied and entirely chinless man, with a head balder than a Jackal's snout. He barely spared them a second glance when the entry sensor chimed. He was leafing through an old comic book, jaw working loudly as he chewed noisily.

"How's it going?" Murphy greeted, resting his hands on the counter. His finger nails were black with soot. He quickly hid them by balling his fists. The operative's nostrils curled. Murphy appreciated that he probably stank of cordite, sweat and dried smoke, but the man across the counter was competing with a balmy combination of stale sweat and a deodorant shortage.

The man behind the counter grunted at him, his eyes only flicking upward for the briefest second.

"Store's closed." The clerk chewed at them distractedly, eyes never leaving the page. "Police lock-down. You should probably go home."

"The sign outside said you were open." Rebecca frowned.

The clerk hit a button beneath the counter. The green sign switched to an inhospitable red.

"Not anymore."

Rebecca smiled tightly, tried again.

"We have something we'd like you to take a look at."

"Come back tomorrow." More chewing. "Sorry."

"Carl, is it?" Murphy read the man's name tag. "I see you're reading 'Commandos of Cygnus III'. That's set in New Jerusalem, right? I had friends stationed there."

Murphy didn't know the first thing about comics. That was Fenton's hobby. But he knew enough to get the man's attention. Carl finally looked up.

"Yeah…"

Excellent, Murphy grinned internally. Now to recycle one of his favourite ways of winding up Fenton. Spend long enough in a foxhole with somebody, you cultivated a series of preferred arguments. This was one of his favourites.

"You know that comic's _all_ bullshit, right?"

"How would you know?" Carl's eyes narrowed snootily "Mr. Toshiba is known for both his technical accuracy _and_ his strong feminine characters."

"He is?" Murphy stabbed a filthy finger on the spotless page. It left a mark, "Because for one, neither of the MA5's shown in that panel can fire for that long without reloading. For two, you can't fire _two_ of them at _once_ and hope to maintain _any_ degree of accuracy, not unless you're some kind of Spartan. And for three, perhaps most _glaringly_ , no ODST I've ever served with wears a bodysuit with _visible_ _cleavage_ on display."

Carl sniffed at that.

"And how would you know? You some sort of expert or something?"

Murphy leaned across the counter, unblinking. He gave Carl every inch of a thousand yard stare; looking right through him. Every veteran learned the Crazy Eyes, whether real or imagined; if only to break it out on unsuspecting civilians during shore-leave. It was invaluable whenever drunk civilians sauntered up and asked you if you'd ever killed someone, or seen action, or any other similarly moronic question. It also got you great discounts if you knew how to use it.

"Four combat tours, fourteen years of service and a small _mountain_ of dead Covies might indicate that, yeah. But mostly this."

Murphy rolled up his sleeve. Tattooed on his inner wrist was the Hell-jumper logo. He'd been loath to part with it, ONI agent or not.

Carl blinked, for the first time realising the sheer malice dripping off Murphy, who was by this point entirely out of patience. That the veteran's bunched fore-arm had more definition and muscle mass than Carl's entire body may have also focused his attention. The chewing stopped.

"I have your attention." Murphy smiled, amiably, "Good. Now, my friend here would like a word."

Rebecca took out the data-pack, set it on the counter.

"I need a disc reader than can read something like this." Rebecca said, ejecting the disc and holding it up.

To Carl's eternal credit, his personality improved considerably when presented with the ancient tech.

"Holy shit," he breathed, perhaps a bit too hard, "Now that's _old school_."

"What is it?" Rebecca asked.

"It's a CSMD: Closed Systems Monitoring Disc. Like one of those old school CCTV systems you see in the period flicks, only these hold an almost endless amount of data. You can run it for years and it'll never run out. The CSMD's competed with standard wireless packs because they were physical hard-copies, incapable of being destroyed in a virus-strike or data raid. That's a big plus here on the Outer Colonies. Records are fragile, stuff gets lost. Nowadays big data is kept on standard info-chips, the type they store A.I's on, but for a time, some fifty years back, these were the next best thing."

"Any way for us to take a look at what's on it?" Rebecca asked. She resisted the urge to give him a sweet smile. Men like Carl often tended to over-think these things.

"Oh yeah, sure! In the back!"

The clerk waved them after him, enthusiastically. Rebecca and Murphy stared at each other, stunned. Against all odds, Carl was going to prove invaluable.

They followed him behind the counter. The back room was every bit as dingy as the front. The gutted entrails of long forgotten computers sat on shelf after shelf, covered in a thick film of dust. Murphy sneezed violently. Rebecca shot him a look.

"What?" Murphy sniffed in protest. "It's dusty."

The monitor they used was a widescreen display set into the wall. Plugged into it ( _physically plugged_! Rebecca marvelled) was a disc reading machine of some kind. Carl bent down and swept dust from the keyboard. Finally, he blew into the disc tray before sliding the disc home.

"For luck." Carl explained, when he saw the look on their faces, "This stuff really is _old._ "

The tech set himself down on the stool before the monitor, Murphy and Rebecca peering over his shoulder.

Carl hit play.

Rebecca recognised the scene immediately. She seen the New Cadiz Tape. They all had. It was the famous footage that had been released around human space in the wake of Orbital Two's collapse. A thirty second loop of the tether coming down, great descending rings of metal crashing down across the city, burying the New Cadiz rebellion in its infancy.

"We've seen this." Murphy sighed, his face falling, "Hell, the whole planet's seen this."

"But check the time stamp." Carl was chewing again, eyes never leaving the screen. "The New Cadiz Tape ends after thirty-one seconds. This has an additional 1.7 _days_ ' worth of footage."

Rebecca looked at Murphy.

"Get some chairs. We could be here for a while."

* * *

Greggs and Edgerton were no longer sitting on the bonnet of their car. They had hunkered down behind their Genet, side-arms drawn. The rest of the police outside were similarly taking cover.

The tear gas had not faded. Instead, it hung in the air, a mist filling the entirety of the atrium. Somebody had taken a grenade launcher and gone to town, launching far more grenades than was strictly necessary. Some flew out onto the street. Uniformed police shied back from the building, uncertain of what was going on inside.

It soon became clear.

The SWAT teams had entered, and for a few tense moments, nothing happened. Clearance reports sounded out; whispered echoes accompanied by the hiss-rasp of their respirators. Then the shooting started. Fitful and ill-disciplined. It was as though the men inside were trying to hit something that wasn't there. They jumped at shadows, each position report contradicting the last. Visibility was limited. Nothing on thermals. Nothing on low-light. Nothing at all.

Then panic set out over the airwaves. The police scanner became an audio-drama no cop wanted to hear. More gunfire split the air, more determined than before. Single shots, tightly disciplined.

It wasn't long before SWAT troopers began emerging; stumbling out of the smoke, choking on their own tear gas. Their respirators had been ripped from their faces. Others carried comrades over their shoulders; most of them nursing gunshot wounds to the legs, shoulders and knees. Others emerged clutching broken wrists, disarmed; the bones set at an angle that was not natural. Groans and plaintive cries filled the airwaves, drowning out any hope of cohesive communication. On the roof, Greggs could make out troopers hastily pulling their fellows up to safety. One or two zip lines emerged bereft of the operators they once carried.

Then the Spartan emerged down the front steps, against a backdrop of coiling gas. The giant stood there a moment, clutching an MA5 in one hand, a multi-barrelled grenade launcher in the other. He surveyed the scene serenely. Officers rushed forward, helping the limping SWAT troopers clear. Nobody fired, at first.

Then he spoke. How he broadcast his voice to the external PA system Greggs never found out. But there it was, his voice booming out across the plaza.

"Members of the Argjend Police Department, this is Spartan 451. Allow me to make my position clear; to provide you with one final warning. Your training for this situation is insufficient; your weapon systems and resources, wholly inadequate. I have minimised loss of life, but make no mistake: further attempts to kill me will be answered in kind. If you continue this fight, rest assured I will finish it."

A hanging silence hung on the square.

"Take him down!" one officer yelled. Small arms fire, mainly police issue side-arms, popped and cracked up in an erratic wave. They pinged and echoed as they chipped at the stone around the Spartan. One or two sparked off the Spartan's shields, singeing the armour skin but doing little else.

The Spartan shrugged, matter of fact.

"Have it your way."

The Spartan unloaded with the grenade launcher one handed; the MA5 erupting in the other, braced tightly against his hip. Arcing tear gas canisters tumbled through the air, hissing as they spilled more gas into the air. They rolled under police cruisers and cracked windshields as they clattered down all across the square. Greggs and Edgerton were already piling into their cruiser, eyes stinging and sinuses burning. The grenade launcher cycled dry. It clacked hard against the steps as he tossed it aside. So too did the assault rifle, its ammo-counter flashing zero.

The incoming fire had died out almost entirely. Police were too busy choking and blindly stumbling through the searing fog to form a coordinated response.

Then Damien unshipped the assault cannon strapped to his lower back. There was a whirring sound as he pulled the first trigger, cycling the barrel up. When the keening rose to full height, he engaged the secondary trigger. A tongue of flame licked from the barrel, sending a seemingly unbroken beam of tracer fire lancing out into the street beyond.

Damien was slow and deliberate as he panned left to right. There wasn't much ammo for it; he hadn't the space to carry the full munition load Becker's kill team favoured. It only lasted for a single arc, but that was enough. Police cruisers were shredded to molten scraps; sawn in half as that beam of fire dragged across them. Armoured trucks wheezed and slumped lower to the ground on hissing wheels as reinforced tyres gave way; the black paint of their armour plating lined with smouldering craters of hot molten orange. The last of the ammo belt rattled empty. Damien snapped off the trigger, the keening of the whirling barrel slowly fading across the smoke-wreathed street.

That was it. That broke them. The police fled, coughing and spluttering; limping, walking or crawling. What few cars could still drive did; weaving erratic, swerving patterns in their haste to get away. Damien glanced up at the hovering police Falcons. They too withdrew to a safe distance, unwilling to be torn out of the sky by a beam of streaming fire. The Spartan tossed the spent assault cannon aside, nodding once in satisfaction. No fatalities. He'd been quite careful.

As calmly as he'd emerged, the Spartan disappeared inside once more, his back turned to the carnage.

The assault cannon lay discarded on the top step, its barrel glowing red hot.

Blinded by the smoke, eyes streaming burning tears, Greggs grabbed at his radio. He couldn't see which frequency he was on. The message went out city-wide, broadcasting on all channels.

"Shots fired, shots fired! Officers down, I repeat; officers down! We need support, _now!"_

* * *

In the APD's Crisis Control Centre, a hushed silence had descended. Even the controllers were quiet. They twisted about in their chairs, looking up at the command platform, unsure of what to do.

"Commissioner, I've seen enough." General Stape said. Weldon did not speak; could not speak, arguably.

He just clung to the safety rail, visibly sweating. The medics removed him, eventually; prising his fingers free from the hand rail before they strechered him out. Genera Stape stepped forward, planting both hands behind his back and standing tall. August and aquiline, in command, his eyes swept the room before him as he spoke.

"Everyone, listen up. I want all police units to fall back to checkpoints designated on the nav-com display. I want the wounded med-evaced, and all other units capable of continuing pursuit identified and checked in. All APD attempts to apprehend the Spartan directly are to cease immediately."

Stape was already keying instructions into his personal TACPAD, awakening the full might of the UNSC garrison on Granica V. Across the city, Mantis Assault Striders stomped from their hangars, Scorpion tanks trundled out. Warthogs revved out onto the street, the Marines and Army units exchanging cat-calls with each other as they passed one another. In orbit high above, the UNSC _Carpathia_ went on high alert, prepping Pelican landers and drop pods; weapon systems powering up and remaining on standby.

Stape watched it all unfold, a slight smile on his face.

"Someone please inform Administrator Jennings that, from now on, this is a military affair."

* * *

The police were backing off. Chidinma peeked out from beneath one of the thick support columns of a boxy water-tower, pulse racing. She couldn't understand it.

They had her boxed in. Four APD Falcons surrounded her, offering no escape. Then they withdrew, adopting a holding pattern. Each stood off a corner of the building Chidinma was hiding on, hovering a good distance out.

Chidinma shrugged and took off again. Whatever they were up to, she didn't intend to wait around long enough to find out. She glanced up at where Rashid's blimp hung in the air, at this point a little more than a klick out.

 _Not far now._

* * *

"Where are we going?" Jennings asked.

"A secure safe house, Madame." Loic replied, "Not far from here."

"And Sarah? Where is she?"

"Two of my Spartans are already en-route to her location. Your daughter's safety is our top priority."

Jennings nodded and went to check her schedule.

 _ **/SECURITY ALERT - ALL APPOINTMENTS CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE./**_

Amanda sighed, setting the slate down. She drummed her fingers against the screen, unsure of what to do with herself. She felt tiny, squashed in as she was between Loic and Aata in the rear of the truck.

Something rumbled over the freeway, passing overhead.

Loic leaned forward and peered out the window. A military patrol had just buzzed overhead: a Pelican, outfitted for urban deployment. Its fuselage was painted a deep green; UNSC livery, though without any unit markings or official insignia. Trident One exchanged an uneasy glance with Aata.

Jennings, unaccustomed to the subtleties of Spartan mannerisms, missed it entirely. Had she seen it, the subtext would have been clear.

Trident hadn't been informed of any military deployment in the sector.

* * *

Below them, the stark shadow of the Pelican danced and jigged as it flowed over rooftops of all shapes and sizes. Keening engines split the air, deafening in the rear of the hold. The pilot's voice clipped in the speakers of their helmet.

"Thirty seconds out."

Fireteam Platinum sat in restraint chairs in the rear of the Pelican, running equipment checks; analysing the data piping into their helmet displays.

Where Chimera were vibrantly coloured, stark contrasts from one Spartan to the next; Fireteam Platinum were dressed in a uniform pearlescent white, complete with golden visors. There was a clean, sterile conformity to them. Their equipment dated from the initial deployment of Gen 2 armour systems; while every bit as armoured as Damien's or Eric's, they possessed none of the advanced movement capability. Not that it mattered: Platinum were all ODSTs prior to enlisting in the Spartan 4 program; practiced killers, the best of the best. They were armed to the teeth. Their combat rating was undisputed.

Platinum One, Spartan Chase Keller, briefed them.

"Gentlemen, we have a liquid situation." Chase began.

"As of 0600 yesterday morning, Sierra-451, designation Chimera One, was reported as absent without obtaining leave from his posting on the northern equator, just outside the city of Tana. Intelligence sources believe he resurfaced in the capital, and was involved with the terrorist activity in the Refugee Zone last night. Since then, an emergency has developed in downtown Argjend. Local forces are moving to engage, but we believe the scale of the conflict is consistent with the deployment of a Tier One asset. Make no mistake: this is our fight."

Fireteam Platinum didn't say a word as they listened. Intel was everything. Their dedication to the mission was absolute.

"We have two targets." Damien's face showed up on a screen in the corner of their HUD, "Primary target is Chimera One. We all remember him from training. We've run the scenarios for this exact situation. Local reports indicate he's using some kind of advanced armour system. It may lend him a slight speed advantage."

"He'll need it." One of the Spartans chuckled darkly. The men around him grunted their approval, slapping hands and bumping knuckles.

Chase was unimpressed. Discipline and efficiency defined him. He would chastise them later.

"Secondary target is Sierra 483, designation Chimera Three. We believe she may be acting in tandem with Chimera One, but that remains unclear: their motives are as yet undetermined. She's unarmoured, on foot and being pursued by APD not far from 451's location."

Chase looked at the Spartan closest to him.

"Myers, she's yours. Take a re-entry pack, close the distance and neutralise her with all speed. Alive, if you can."

"Copy." Platinum Three nodded fiercely. He handed his marksman rifle to one of his fellows, taking an M9 sub-machine gun instead. Myers stood up, unpacking a jetpack from the storage cages overhead. As Platinum's designated scout and fastest sprinter, Myers' beaked armour system was comparatively lighter than his peers.

Reeve, Platinum Two, helped him rig the jump pack. The two often paired together: scout and sniper, acting as one. Reeve wore the LOCUS pattern; a skull-like helmet bereft of a visor of any kind. His rifle was the angel on their collective shoulders.

"What about the rest of Chimera?" Reeve asked, taking notes in his HUD. He was nothing if not detail driven.

"As you're aware, Chimera Five was formally listed MIA following the destruction of New Cadiz. Chimera Four remains hospitalised, and is understood to remain under military supervision in Havenwood Medical. Additional agents are enroute to his location even as we speak."

"And Chimera Two?" Platinum Four, Deng, asked.

"Russian bitch." Platinum Five, Hendric, spat.

The next two Spartans were polar opposites. Deng was a gifted com-tech, having originally served with combat engineers prior to enrolling with ODST. His armour style was – fittingly – the Engineer Pattern. Four yellow lights like spiders eyes decorated his faceplate, lending him a perpetual look of curiosity.

Where Deng was patient and calculating, Hendric was short-tempered and bullish. Viktorya had cold-clocked him once or twice in training. Hendric knew how to nurse a grudge. Encased as he was in bulky EOD battle-plate, he didn't look like the kind of man you wanted to have bad blood with. He was the largest of them; Platinum's token heavy weapons and demolitions specialist.

"Chimera Two is still on ice, pending final review for mem-wipe." Chase shook his head, "She won't be an issue, Four."

"So two rogue Spartans, and an entire city to chase them in." Myers mused, "Sounds fun."

Chase looked at each of them. Their armoured faces reflected back at them in the twin visors of his Pathfinder helmet. They were right on top of the AO.

"Two way split," he told them, "Two and Three take the girl; Four and Five engage Chimera One. If either of them try to slip the net, I'll be here on standby, coordinating from above."

They nodded. Reeve checked the scope on his rifle.

"And if the locals get in our way?" Hendric growled.

"General Stape's orders were unambiguous: Condition Zero is now in effect, Spartans. Somebody steps in your way? Step on 'em."

Platinum hammered their gauntleted palms against their thighs, a chorus of approval. Five green acknowledgement lights signified one thing.

The hunt was on.


	14. Chapter 13: The Hunt

" _Some memories stay with me. Vivid, sharp. I recall them as I lived them; the moments startlingly clear in my mind's eye._

 _2512\. Development begins on a new project, codename MJOLNIR._

 _The brief is simple. A powered exoskeleton, capable of amplifying a wearer's abilities on the battlefield. A soldier who can carry more, run faster, jump higher, hit harder. A two-legged force multiplier._

 _Dr. Catherine Halsey is appointed project lead. Section Three is her kingdom now. She rewards ONI's trust with a level of critical thinking that can only be described as genius. I have not since seen its like._

 _Dr. Halsey's initial prototypes are inspired, but lack practical functionality. Armour and shielding are far in advance of traditional infantry combat systems, but the power supply is cumbersome, even dangerous in some cases. The core systems are vulnerable to small-arms fire and projectile ordnance._

 _Dangerous too are the tests themselves. Early attempts to marry live operators with hydraulic exoskeletons are disastrous. More than one test subject is lost to the unrelenting servos of the early, cruder systems. I can still hear the snapping bones; the agonised shrieking. Designs are revisited._

 _The Spartan II's continue to improve. The children mature rapidly, advancing at a rate that makes the Project ORION subjects seem primitive by comparison. Their genetic augmentations far outstrip the advances of the materiel development wing. I am struck with a feeling of being obsolete, but push such conceited thoughts aside. The Insurrectionist Question remains unanswered. We have the answer at our fingertips. All we need do is grasp it._

 _I work as a low-level researcher in the research and development division, responsible for monitoring a candidate's compatibility with a given exoskeleton. Progress is slow. Setbacks, numerous. But I am placed in a privileged position; exposed to two very separate disciplines simultaneously. ORION has served me well. Neural pathways are improved; my critical thinking and memory retention are above recorded standards. Halsey is pleased, and provides me with a small degree of mentoring, in what limited time she has._

 _I learn much, quickly._

 _The Mark I is unwieldy, ill-suited to field exercises. Month after month of frustration. For every breakthrough, a setback. The design brief is simple, but the application… elusive. Mark II and Mark III are no different; variations of the same recurring problem._

 _August 4_ _th_ _2520: Another subject is lost to a suit malfunction that morning, a woman. She will be the last. It is decided that, from now on, only second-generation augmented be allowed to interface with the prototypes. Also significant is the change in approach: henceforth, it will be the operator's physical strength that determines the power of the suit, not the other way round._

 _The woman who died was known to me; a fellow ORION soldier. Not a close friend, but nevertheless, I bear witness. The same day, I am approached by Section Zero, who express mounting concerns over the ethics of the project. Haunted by her screams, understanding the need for accountability, I readily accept._

 _My double life begins."_

\- excerpt from a private record, author unknown

* * *

The two Spartans hit the ground hard; weapons sweeping the drop zone.

"Platinum Four and Five on station." Deng reported, "Proceeding to waypoint marker."

"Solid copy." Chase replied, "Good hunting, Spartans. Proceeding to next objective."

The Pelican lifted off, engine wash sending a tumult of broken glass tinkling across the deserted plaza. It disappeared from sight, vanishing over the rooftops. The square was in ruins. Burnt-out police cars and slumping APCs trailed smoke from hundreds of bullet holes. One or two members of the APD lay where they fell, overwhelmed by the tear gas. Vitals were weak, but present.

Less well-off was the museum itself. The Argjend War Museum was a bullet-chipped monster; its alabaster-white walls stained a sooty grey. Its steps were littered with discarded firearms and snaking blood trails. Smoke curled from the lobby ominously. Platinum hadn't seen a place this bad since the Human-Covenant War.

The Spartans rose to a half-crouch, combat ready, undaunted.

They kept their weapons trained as they advanced on the museum.

* * *

Inside, Damien took inventory.

He had an SMG with four magazines, a sling of grenades, and a DTM Law Enforcement pump-action. Not a huge arsenal, but then his attackers had anticipated a conventional domestic threat; favouring neuro-chemical gas and close-range assault weapons. _I guess Mjolnir never featured in the field manual._

SWAT's reliance on gas had been their downfall. While their rebreathers incorporated a VISR system not dissimilar from Damien's own, it was comparatively antiquated, reliant on residual body heat; designed for hunting for biological targets, not a machine-like outer shell. The Gen-II armour simply didn't feature on any scans. Damien had let them jump at shadows, taking full advantage of the limited visibility of the choking gas by picking engagements at key moments. An ambush here, a pulled grenade pin there. The majority of gunshot wounds the APD suffered had been self-inflicted by their own panicking team-mates.

For his part, Damien had been content to select single-fire, neutralising targets almost at leisure. If he could preserve life, he would. New Cadiz had left enough blood on his hands.

Most of the tear-gas had cleared, venting through the broken skylights above, but the museum remained a mess. Bullet holes had cracked the dark stone walls, which had crumbled in sections, exposing slivers of naked concrete beneath. The red emergency lighting bounced off the angular cracks, looking even more sinister than before. Damien waited by the Brute Chopper, watching the gauge tick closer to full. Rashid had assured him it was nearly ready.

Something pinged on his HUD. Damien wheeled about, the SMG's strap rattling as it snapped to bear

Two isolated radar contacts had appeared on his sensor suite, briefly: one second they were there and the next they were not. An uneasy, all-too-familiar feeling settled in Damien's gut.

A feeling he hadn't experienced since Laconia.

Damien hurried down the steps to the main hall, darting nimbly forward on quiet feet. His heart-rate spiked. Still nothing on the radar, but that instinct, that intuitive _niggle_ , remained. Damien came to a stop behind a plinth close to the entrance hall, crouching low in the centre of the floor. A mock-up gravity hammer sat in the ruined display case, presented on a velvet cushion.

Damien peeked over the edge, squinting into the gloom. His VISR panned from one vision mode to the next; probing, hunting for targets. It switched back to standard; the long dark hallway fading back into murky darkness, under-lit by the menacing red emergency lights inset into the floor. Thin shafts of light shone down from the skylights high above, motes of dust swirling like static.

Then a voice spoke. Gruff, but playful. Even with the metallic filter, there was no hiding the South African drawl. A lance of recognition and adrenaline shot through Damien.

 _Platinum._

"Easy now, Chimera. No need to make this any harder than it has to be."

Hendric, Platinum Five. That meant heavy weapons, explosive ordnance if given clearance. Another dart of movement to the left. Hendric's silent partner. Moving up at an angle, trying to flank him. No telling who that was, not yet. Platinum were notoriously fleet of foot. Damien rested on the ball of his feet, primed to bolt if he had to.

Hendric's voice called out again.

"See, if you just come quietly, we won't have to make this messy, eh? General wants a word with you. He's _very_ upset."

The voice came from the same direction it had originally. Again the sensor contact to the left twitched, creeping ever closer. Misdirection; Hendric was trying to hold Damien's attention.

Two targets. Both Spartans. Damien suddenly felt very exposed.

There were a few lessons that had particularly stayed with Damien from his time on Laconia. The first was that you didn't mess around, not against a hostile Spartan deployment. They had all of your speed, all of your augmentations, every scrap of your training. There was another rule, one Chimera as a whole had been quick to adopt as the scenarios progressed and the defeats mounted; any caution you employed against enemy Spartans on an exercise, you doubled when it came to Fireteam Platinum.

The target on the left darted up again, a flash of white in the gloom.

Damien snapped out of cover and unloaded a burst from the SMG. The muzzle flash strobed brilliantly in the darkness. It also revealed his position.

The deluge of return fire was extraordinary. Damien threw himself flat.

Any of the exhibitions that hadn't been ruined during the SWAT raid were mulched by the blistering chatter of an M739 SAW. Thick oak frames splintered as hard rounds smashed into them, chewing into the stone plinths beneath. Brackets fell loose, dumping priceless post-war artefacts from their stands. The velvet cushion above him was shredded, spitting feathers high into the air. Vases salvaged from communities long lost to the scorching fire of the Covenant armada disintegrated into fine powder. Damien hurled himself behind the display to his right, thrusters flaring as they propelled him into tumbling, graceless roll.

The second target appeared; a juddering MA5D unloading in tight, controlled bursts. Hard rounds tore up sections of the floor where Damien had been hiding moments before. Damien caught a glimpse of the armour. So it was Deng, then. Platinum Four; precise, methodical, an eye for Covenant systems that rivalled Rashid's mastery of computers. A ruthless, calculating counterpoint to Hendric's brute force.

Damien scrambled deeper into the hall; driven back to the next row. The two pursuing Spartans marched forward in lock-step, shoulder to shoulder; maintaining a withering hail of fire. Damien pulled a grenade from his webbing; pulled the pin with his thumb and slung it over the display. He had to snatch his hand back as more rounds skipped overhead. There was a thump and the incoming fire abruptly cut out. Damien waited for a few breathless seconds, pulse thundering in his ears.

A low threatening chuckle wafted from the dark.

"You're jumping at shadows, boy."

 _Jumping_ , Damien thought to himself. _Not a bad plan._

Damien sprinted for the wall, foot kicking off a side display; hands clawing at the wall as his thrusters carried him upward. He braced against the wall; launching himself for the lander strung up along the ceiling. One hand shot out and grasped the fuselage. Fingertips only, then a second hand caught hold. A rasp of his thrusters carried him the rest of the way.

He'd only barely pulled himself atop when a storm of fire chopped up at him, sparking off the ancient hull of the _Argjend_. This time he wasn't quite fast enough. Stray rounds clipped his legs as he swung them up. Another caught him in the shoulder pauldron, twisting him about as he tumbled out of sight. The shot had narrowly missing the tracking device Rashid was so desperately trying to crack. Chimera One rolled deeper into cover. The gunfire cut out; Platinum showing perfect firing discipline.

Damien caught his breath. His shield monitor bleated in his ear as it struggled to restore itself.

"Damien!" Rashid's voice cut in urgently, "I'm reading increased activity across all military channels. Eyes up, you may have company!"

"Yeah, I gathered." Damien growled, flopping over onto his stomach as he caught his breath. "Platinum just introduced themselves."

Damien's shields sprang back to life, humming status green. He picked himself up, staying crouched.

"You going to wait up there forever, eh, Chimera?" Hendric called out. "Why not come down and say hello?"

Then the SAW opened up again. Deng added his fire to the mix. At first Damien wasn't sure what they were aiming at. It soon became clear. The support cables started fraying; then snapping, one by one. They tore free of their moorings with a violent squeal of tortured metal; a twanging whiplash that sang against the high walls. The lander jerked downward, once. Then it dropped lower again. Damien clung on for dear life. The skylights rose above him, ever higher; beyond any distance he could hope to reach.

There was no other option. He was going to have to fight.

"What are you waiting for, Damien?" Hendric asked. The _Argjend I_ lurched on the few cables that held it aloft. An uneasy groan filled the air as they strained under the weight. "Afraid to come down and be a man?"

"Oh I will," Damien replied amiably. He unslung the shotgun, pumping the slide and targeting the most visibly strained cable. "Just on my terms."

The shotgun thundered in the cavernous hall. The cable snapped free of its moorings. Damien jumped, triggering his thruster pack at the last second. He lost the shotgun in the chaos.

The lander tore the wall tiles down with it. Cables, dropship, lumps of rock; they descended in a roaring avalanche of crumbling masonry. The screech of descending metal was deafening. The floor display of the Outer Colonies was buried beneath a heap of twisted metal. The choking dust welled up high, obscuring the world from view.

Hendric and Deng had thrown themselves clear. They were up on their feet quickly, weapons hunting; VISR systems flipping from one vision mode to the next.

"Where are you, you bastard?!" Hendric snarled.

"Right here."

Damien shot out of the mist at high speed, thrusters white-hot orbs in the sifting smoke. His shoulder slammed square into Hendric, smashing him off his feet. A flurry of submachine gunfire blazed toward Deng; frenzied, wildly inaccurate. Deng was much too quick. The smaller Spartan was already behind cover, crouching low as the bullets chipped into the plinth he'd spun behind. Deng's shields sparked where ricocheting rounds pinged against him. He waited for the rain of incoming fire to subside.

Platinum Four rose up and responded in kind. His bullets only split smoke and murdered the far wall. Deng lowered the rifle, frowning. With mechanical efficiency he slammed a new mag home. Then the barrel was up again, hunting for a sign, any sign, of the target.

Chimera One had vanished again. Damn, but the bastard was quick.

Deng helped Hendric to his feet. The larger Spartan's chest plate was dented inward. Hendric blinked, searching about in the scattered rubble.

His SAW was missing.

Hendric smoothly drew his side-arm, a thick nosed magnum revolver, loaded with explosive rounds. The gun was a civilian model, a Gruber .44; silver barrelled, engraved with custom etchings. It wasn't even close to regulation, but he'd carried it for most of his twenty years of service prior to becoming a Spartan. The Gruber had finished more split-jaws than any sidearm had a right to. It would put a man down, Mjolnir or no Mjolnir.

Fireteam Platinum advanced up either side of the corridor, creeping through the eerie silence of the settling dust.

Movement on the radar. A warbling roar that was all too familiar. Hendric's instincts took over. The Gruber barked: three shots, solid grouping.

The Elite's animatronic head burst. It rocked back and forth on its hinges, a geyser of sparks spouting from its neck. Damaged speakers warbled a distorted, taunting laugh.

" _Wort! Wort! Wort!"_

"Who's jumping now, Platinum?" Damien's voice drifted, chuckling. His voice was everywhere and nowhere. The puppets jigged and danced as Platinum treaded by, carefully searching.

"Snivelling little shit!" Hendric bellowed. "Come out!"

Damien complied, ducking out from behind the Hunter dummy; he crouched between its stumpy legs and gargantuan shield. The SAW was already chattering in his hands.

Platinum dove for cover behind the already ruined plinths. Key dates were erased from history as they were peppered by a storm of automatic fire.

Damien held the trigger down until the drum clicked dry, the holo-counter flaring red. By then he was already moving. Answering fire chased him, but he was faster. The Hunter dummy came apart, blasting into chunks of spiralling wax; proving far less robust than the mighty creatures it imitated. Stray rounds clanged against the monstrous front wheel of the Brute Chopper. Damien swung into the chair, reached up and grabbed the handle bars above him. Fully charged or not, it was time to go. He gunned the ignition.

The Chopper growled to life, grav-drive thrumming, the motor settling into an idling purr.

Hendric went to open fire. His revolver clicked on an empty barrel. He lowered it, bemused.

" _That's_ your plan?" Hendric guffawed, incredulous, "That _antique?_ "

Damien pulled the grip-handles inset just above the handle bars, triggering the weapon system. Thick 35mm cannon shot thundered forth; super-heated rounds tearing sizeable chunks from the ruined lander further down the hall. The two white Spartans dove in opposite directions, scrambling for cover. Damien swung the Chopper around, the monstrous front wheel demolishing the timber of the tidy dais it had stood on for so many years. He twisted about in the saddle.

"Some things get better with age."

With a roar of the engine and a blast of the afterburner, the Chopper surged through the rear window, roaring down onto the highway below in a shower of shimmering glass. Deng and Hendric rushed up to the ledge, snapping their weapons to bear.

Too late. The Chopper was already thundering up the highway, its grav-drive just a purple-blue spot on the horizon.

* * *

Eric punched the com frequency from the blimp into his TACPAD.

"Chimera One, this is Sierra 239. How copy, over?"

A different yet familiar voice answered him.

"Chimera Four here, Sir. Damien's a little preoccupied at present."

"Rashid. I should have expected as much. Is that blimp your doing, Spartan?" Eric asked.

"Using what I had to hand, just like you taught us, Sir. I'm not reading you on any scans. What's your position?"

"Close. We're just about to enter the Central District. Give me a sit-rep."

"Dr. Pearson has made contact with your ground team. They have the package and have gone to ground. Damien's running interference. Chidi was en-route to him, but is now isolated and in need of support." There was no concealing the concern in Rashid's voice. "Sir, I don't suppose you can assist?"

"I'll need a position marker."

"Standby, synching you to the others' com systems now. And… thank you, Sir."

Eric stomped back to the rear hold. He thumped a button on one of the sealed cages with a clenched fist. Battle rifles, MA5s, twin-cylinder rocket launchers, even M-6 Non-Linear Rifles; every weapon a soldier could conceivably wield on a 26th century battlefield whirred down on secure brackets. Eric picked up a BR-85, mag-locking it to his back.

Spartan G239 felt a familiar stirring. The rage; that old battle thirst. His hands trembled as they unconsciously balled into fists. He was a Spartan-III. Built for total war, bred for savagery. Modern day berserkers; to be unleashed on the foe. Expendable. The doctors had worked on him at Laconia, time and again, giving him the new upgrades, the improved augmentations. Hoping to convert him to the new, more civilized generation. A waste of time. His thumb rubbed against the faded Scimitar sigil on his chest plate. Some things ran deeper. Some things never died.

"Park, get back here."

The tech hurried to the rear hold, clinging to the walls for dear life as the ship twisted and turned. Perry's flying wasn't for anyone who didn't have an ingrained fondness for roller coasters.

"Sir?"

"I need an assault rig prepped for Chimera Three. Aerial deployment. You know what to do."

"On it."

The crimson Spartan pressed his good hand against the side of his helmet.

"Warmonger."

"Go ahead, 239." Perry replied.

"One of our own needs our help. Uploading coordinates to your nav system now. Make it fast, Perry."

"You got it, Spartan." There was a tilt in the hold as Perry made the course correction, then added, "Five minutes left on the stealth drive."

"Copy." Eric replied brusquely. He was plucking grenades from a drawer, mag-sealing them to his waist.

"You're not concerned? We'll have the entire goddamn UNSC Navy on our heads…"

Eric looked at Park, who was listening in; a sick look on his face. The Spartan was armed to the back teeth in cutting edge military hardware. Eric drew a long combat knife, admiring the shine on the blade as he twisted it about with his mechanical hand. He thumped it down into a sheath strapped across his breastplate.

"Then I guess it's time to see if you live up to your call sign."

* * *

"Myers, go."

Platinum Two leapt from the rear of the Pelican, falling forty feet. His jetpack flared once before he touched down on the rooftop. A perfect dismount, textbook. Two buildings over, Chidinma watched him land, her heart in her throat. She turned and fled.

The hunting Pelican's engines flared as it powered forward, circling in a pursuit pattern. In the rear hatch, Platinum One watched the chase unfold. Crouched beside him, Spartan Reeve steadied his sniper rifle, drawing a bead on her. He tensed on the trigger.

"Hold fire." Chase said to him.

Reeve looked up.

"Sir?"

"Orders from Stape. Alive… if possible."

Reeve's finger eased from the trigger with some reluctance.

Chase watched as Myers took off, an armoured cheetah. He swelled with pride. Platinum Three was his best scout.

His greatest hunter.

 _Not Platinum,_ Chidi thought, feet slapping the ground as she sprinted as fast as she could. _Not now._

Chidinma slid under a heavy set of pipes; was up running again seconds later. She heard the heavy crack of the Spartan landing behind her, one building over. Mjolnir assisted boots thumped over and over again as he dashed after her. Chidinma leapt across another gap in between buildings. The stomping footsteps drew closer and closer.

It didn't matter how quick she was, or how intelligently she navigated the perilous jumps from one roof to the next. A Mjolnir-assisted IV would outrun an unarmoured Spartan of the same generation. The gulf in efficiencies was simply too great. He was going to catch her.

Chidinma was just surprised at how quickly he did.

The Spartan slammed down directly in front of her, jetpack exhaust smouldering. Spartan Myers rose to his feet. His submachine gun remained mag-locked to the small of his back. He stood there, hands apart, like a grav-ball blocker poised to make an intercept. Rashid looked over her shoulder, frustration bubbling up. The blimp was just behind him. She had been so agonisingly close. Now it may as well have been on the other side of the planet.

Chidinma fell into a fighting stance, open-palmed, knees bent.

"Really?" Myers asked in disbelief, voice harsh through the unseen filters in his helmet. "Your call, Spartan. Orders are to take you alive. I'll try not to pulp you too much."

He adopted a stance of his own; closed fist; a mixed-discipline Marine stance. She knew it well, had mastered it herself.

Chidinma let him have first strike. Myers was fast, frighteningly so. His balled fist tore in at her, wind whistling behind it. She ducked, barely; countering with a smooth shove to his elbow that drove the momentum of his strike slamming into an air exchanger. It left a sizeable dent, not dissimilar in size to Chidi's own skull. She swallowed.

Myers came at her again. Two jabs and roundhouse kick. She ducked the first, deflected the second, hissing in pain as her wrist met armoured plate. The kick only half-connected, glancing her ribs. But it was enough to smash Chidinma off her feet. Had it fully connected, this fight would be done already. Chidinma rolled backwards, coming up in a smooth combat crouch. But she was winded and it showed. She rose unsteadily to her feet. Myers tutted, circling her; his hands rolling in small circles.

"Did that smart, Chimera?"

Chidinma's flurry of blows came so quickly Myers had to counter three times in quick succession. Driving palm strikes dented plate and drove him back. She snapped around, stabbing a spinning hook kick at his face. He anticipated it, ducking low and charging bodily forward; trying to slam her into the brick wall behind her. Chidinma vaulted over his shoulder, a smooth somersault. Brickwork exploded as he hit the wall. Myers swung around snarling.

Both combatants reset, eyeing each other. They resumed their circling; probing for weakness.

This was a hopeless venture. Deep down, Chidinma knew that. Any hits she did score did little more than cosmetic damage; and were only only going to harm her in the long run. Myers, by comparison, was fully protected by Tier One battle plate; armour that boosted his reflexes, augmented his power beyond that of his already considerable natural abilities. _How did you win a fist-fight with a tank?_

Nevertheless, Chidinma stood her ground. She would not make it easy for him.

On they sparred. A blistering array of punches and counter-strikes. As peerless a fighter as Chidinma was, for all her rage and determination, it was no good. Myers was too quick, the balance too heavily tipped in his favour. Eventually his hand snapped out, his armoured gauntlet encasing Chidinma's exposed hand. He began to squeeze. Chidinma fell to her knees, emitting a feral hiss of pain.

"Who taught you how to fight?" Myers taunted, his head tilted in mock pity as he applied more pressure. Chidinma howled.

"Me." Eric answered, very close by.

The red Spartan's fist silenced any response. The grip on Chidinma's hand released. The scout's head snapped around so hard his helmet flew off. Blood splattered against the roof. Some teeth too. Myers to his credit staggered to a half crouch, still reeling from the blow.

"And I certainly trained _you_ better than this." Eric sneered.

Eric's mule-kick pitched Myers clean off the side of the building. He didn't bother watching him fall.

Eric looked down and saw the shocked expression on Chidinma's face.

"What? He'll live." Eric growled, pulling her to her feet with his mechanical arm. "On your feet, Chimera Three. I need every one of you in this fight."

* * *

Reeve snapped his rifle to bear. The crosshairs locked clean on Chidinma's torso. Centre-mass; a certain kill shot.

"Sir?"

Chase could see Reeve's crosshairs in his own HUD.

"Take the shot."

Impact warnings blared within the hold. Something slammed into them, at speed. Something massively heavy. Chase spilled off-balance, crashing backwards into the hold. The world outside was cast into a whipping blur as their Pelican was thrown into a dead spin.

Reeve's shot whistled clear, missing entirely. He would have slipped out of the hold too, had Chase not grabbed his ankle suddenly. The heavy rifle tumbled away to the street below.

"Pilot, report!" Chase barked, his other hand enmeshed in the floor grille. The spinning was slowing as the Pelican struggled to regain control.

"Something… something just hit us!" the pilot stammered, incredulous. "Some kind of blimp!"

"What?!"

The Pelican remained flightworthy, the outside blur subsiding. Chase got a clear view out the rear hatch. Sure enough, grav engines struggling, heavily dented, a wayward airship was wobbling through the sky drunkenly. Its entire nose had caved in.

Chase snarled when he saw the warped Chimera logo plastered on the side.

"Inform General Stape that we have eyes on Spartan G-239." He reported, "And tell whoever they have securing Chimera Four that they want to get there quickly. Sierra 482 is in the network. I repeat: Sierra 482 is in the goddamn network!"

* * *

The D81 Condor shrieked through the air, trying to weave a path through the streets that didn't lead straight into the countless police and military fliers soaring above the city. Perry kept one eye on the monitor for the stealth drive. It was blinking red; all but spent.

In the back, Park was already prepping the Armour Assistant. Eric clapped Chidinma on the back as she stepped up into the arming stirrups. Armour pieces bolted into place; encasing her torso, wrists, shoulders, feet. In seconds she was encased in iridescent purple armour; the colour of a Covenant cruiser. She felt the system engage and interface with the body suit beneath. A surge of unnatural, god-like strength infused every muscle she had. _Let Platinum try and touch me now_.

"What's the plan, Sir?" Chidinma asked, tilting her head back as an Aviator helmet was lowered over her head. It clamped into place with a hiss-seal of pressurised air.

Eric was helping Park undo restraint locks on the ceiling cage. It ran the full length of the hold, holding something massive in shape. Park had to fold the Armour Assistant against the back wall to make room as they worked.

"General Stape wants a fight, 483. I'm more than inclined to give him one."

With a final clasping rattle, the cage began to lower. All three of them stepped back.

"Right now, we only have one soldier in the field." Eric said, raising his voice over the motorised whine. "And Spartan or not, he can't fight an entire planet alone."

The cage's motors clanked to a halt as it touched down fully. Park stepped forward, running systems checks. Chidinma didn't need to see over his shoulder to know what it was. She'd used a similar battle-system before, albeit in simulated exercises. A well of excitement rose up within her.

It was a prototype. A miniaturised version of the OF92/EVA Booster Frame; a single-engine flier, it sat on a miniaturised rail cannon that ran along the underside of the fuselage. Its recurved wings were folded beneath it for storage. It was a more aerodynamic version of its larger cousin, having been tweaked for atmospheric flight. Twin rotary cannons sat beneath each wing tip.

Chidinma turned looked at Eric boldly.

"Not without air support."

* * *

Rashid heard the boots in the corridor long before the door to his hospital room burst open. He stabbed a single key on his keyboard. The multitude of windows that were projecting onto almost every square inch of the white-washed room vanished instantly. Across the city, a lonely, entirely lost blimp no longer displayed the Chimera unit patch. Somewhere near the Starport, an entirely confused tech support team cheered.

Then the door came down; an entire clearance team hustling through.

Rashid looked up at the dozen armed Marines pointing clicking rifles at him.

"Gentlemen." He smiled affably.

They confiscated his Delving Deck, patted him down, looked for any kind of backup transmitter hidden on his person.

Chimera Four had done all he could for Chidinma and the others. They were on their own. For now.

It took five Marines to try and man-handle Rashid into a wheelchair. Eventually he pushed them away. They stumbled, falling over; taken off-guard by just how strong he truly was.

"Leave it." He snapped irritably, "I'll do it myself."

Rashid swung himself into the chair. He glanced up at one of the marines, meeting the man's scowl with a sheepish smile.

"Wouldn't fancy giving me a push, would you?"

* * *

"This is unacceptable!" Jennings repeated. She was eye-level with Loic's breastplate, but still made for a fearsome figure. The giant Spartan had his hands spread, trying to mollify her

"Madame, I am very sorry, but we were not informed of the lockdown order. Your safety is our only concern."

"That shit! That scurrilous little shit!" Jennings spat, pacing. " _This_ is why we have riots in the street, _this_ is why the UNSC have rocks thrown at them whenever they patrol! You can't just run roughshod over _democracy_ whenever it doesn't suit you!"

Loic glanced at Aata, who simply shrugged his tectonic shoulders with a hollow click. He was here for hitting things. He was good at it.

"Madame, it is for your own safety." Loic tried again.

They were in a secure apartment in one of the more affluent towers in Central District.

Secret service personnel punctuated every corridor. Out on the landing, Callum stood watch with a high-powered rifle, surveying the streets below. Kazuo and Sanjay were due any moment now.

The door chime rang. One of the guards looked at Loic. Loic nodded at him.

"Mom!"

"Sarah!"

Amanda Jennings' thirteen-year-old daughter ran and embraced her mother in a tight hug. Sarah was a slim girl, pretty; an elegant reflection of her world-weary mother. She was growing rapidly, at risk of becoming a young woman. Kazuo and Sanjay clomped in behind her, nodding at Loic and Aata in silent greeting.

"What's going on, Mom?" Sarah asked, eyes wide. "When the Spartans showed up at school, everyone started talking. I saw the 'Nets. Is it really the terrorists again?"

"We don't know, sweetheart." Amanda shot Loic a look. "All we know is that the Loic and his team were instructed to bring us here."

They moved into the sitting room. Coffee had been prepared, to calm nerves as much as anything else. The Spartans hovered at the edge of the room, trying to blend in as much as eight-foot-tall walking death machines could. Their massive boots left lasting imprints in the thick carpet.

Loic put a hand up to the side of his helmet. He cleared his throat, conscious of the metal edge his filtered voice lended to the otherwise cosy room.

"Madame Administrator, General Stape is on the line."

Amanda set her coffee aside, rising to her feet. One of the walls was blank; it served as a holo-viewer. Sarah went to make herself scarce but Amanda shushed her down.

"Put him through." Amanda said.

General Stape appeared on the monitor, as haggard and weathered as ever. Behind him was a wall of monitors. Crisis Control had been taken over by military personnel. Amanda could see the soldiers in the background, lining the walls of the chamber. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain composed.

"Administrator." Stape bowed his head gravely, "I do apologise for the inconvenience."

"An inconvenience? That's a delicate way to put it, General. This is the second time in six months you've incited mass panic. It'll be even more of an inconvenience when my people no longer trust me at the next election. You're not doing me any favours, General, so don't pretend you are."

"Quite the contrary, Ma'am. This situation is far graver than six months ago. The media is quite mistaken. We're not dealing with Insurrectionists. Not anymore. What we have on our hands is a far worse. What I'm about to tell you is classified information."

Stape couldn't see Sarah off-screen, or the other Spartans for that matter. Amanda decided at that moment that if it the information was good enough for her, then it was good enough for the rest of them.

An image appeared: a red armoured Spartan, his visor a single horizontal slice of gold in a helmet that resembled some kind of futuristic samurai.

Loic and those of Fireteam Trident in the room restrained the urge to snap a salute. They watched silently, absorbing the information as they would any combat briefing.

"This is Spartan Eric G239; the same Spartan who disappeared after the collapse of New Cadiz. He's an older vintage, the ones we called Spartan-III's." Stape licked his lips before continuing, "The III's were notoriously unstable; mass-produced, deployed for situations that can only be described as no-win scenarios. A more desperate creation, from a more desperate time. As you can see from the arm, this Spartan's no stranger to personal trauma."

A series of mission deployments flashed up on screen. Stape's voice carried on as they scrolled through. Most of the missions were redacted or classified.

"239's combat record is highly classified, and remains so since the war ended. He was in charge of the initial Spartan taskforce we brought with us from a secret facility, the name and location of which I am unable to disclose at this time. It was also Spartan G239 who brought the rampant A.I. to Granica V, inflicting it on the planetary network."

"My God." Jennings breathed. Stape wasn't finished.

"And he's not acting alone."

New images flashed up, taken from security cameras overlooking the exterior of the Argjend War Museum. Sarah recognised it at once. She often spent her weekend afternoons sketching there. Particularly the life sized models of the Covenant. She'd helped the curators get the look just right; especially the Hunters. Those were her favourite.

The footage showed a far less peaceful situation. A blue Spartan stood on the steps. The armour pattern was unfamiliar to Loic, but the markings on the chest-plate were clear enough.

"We believe this is Spartan 451, former leader of the now decommissioned Fireteam Chimera. He led the Spartan strike force deployed into New Cadiz. The same strike-force that brought the A.I. ground-side. Whether it's a direct terrorist action, or whether they're doing this because of some twisted loyalty to their former mentor, is unclear. All we know is they're involved, and are this time considered an active threat to the security of Argjend and indeed the wider planet.

More footage, this time of a dark-skinned woman sprinting across rooftops. The jumps she was managing and the athleticism on display was breathtaking. Chasing her was a small fleet of police craft.

"We're still trying to establish a motive, though we probably won't have one until the situation is contained and Fireteam Chimera neutralised. We've dispatched our top specialists to contain the situation."

Fireteam Trident looked at one another. A silent debate ensued. None of them said a word but acknowledgement lights on the HUD began flashing red in protest. Even Callum's, who was listening in over Trident's com network. Not one of them had agreed with Chimera's decommissioning. Loic flashed his as amber. The message was clear: their duty was the safety of Administrator Jennings and her family. They were the mission. Any personal views were secondary. One by one, reluctantly, the lights went orange in turn; an acceptance, of sorts.

"This is an unprecedented situation, Administrator. We've never had a Spartan unit go rogue before. The implications are… unsettling. APD units have been unable to stop them, and it is with the utmost reluctance that I find myself deploying UNSC soldiers within the city limits once more. I'll get you your city back, Ma'am. I just need time."

Amanda wasn't sure what to say. The footage was damning, certainly. She watched the police officers flee the museum en masse, stumbling as they helped each other to safety. Some of them rolled about, clutching bleeding limbs; teeth bared in silent screams of agony. Amanda was glad the footage had no audio. She watched the blue Spartan toss its cannon aside, striding back into the building. Impervious those who faced him. That four of these human tanks now stood in her living room filled her with the deepest sense of unease.

Reluctantly, Amanda closed her eyes and nodded.

"I understand, General. Do whatever you have to do."

* * *

Rebecca and Murphy hunched forward in the cramped, dark room. They'd forgotten the dinginess of the room, the choking dust and the tragic stench of Carl the Repair Guy. All eyes were fixed on the screen. They barely even blinked.

The footage began as they all remembered. Whoever had edited it had included those familiar, haunting images. Landmark images; ones that had changed an entire planet's way of life, and not for the better. The Orbital came down, and with it the city. A wall of ash and fire swept over the camera. When clarity returned, most of the buildings before the camera simply no longer existed; a sea of bricks and half-walls barely standing. Large semi-circles of Orbital Tether looped across the horizon, like gargantuan tombstones. Thick cables hung from them, swaying listlessly in the wind.

Relief crews picked through the devastation; armoured UNSC soldiers outfitted with heavy respirators. They pulled bodies from the wreckage, ferrying them out on stretchers. As the timestamp accelerated, they became tiny, blurring figures, buzzing about at hypersonic speeds.

Carl slowed the footage a full twenty four hours after the New Cadiz Tape traditionally ended. Most of the fires had been put out, or had died down to smouldering embers. He'd seen something flick into frame and then vanish again. He reversed, hit play once more; now in real-time.

A Pelican dropship kissed down in the ash-covered field, and more soldiers emerged. These wore no insignia, and were dressed in uniform black armour. Murphy and Rebecca exchanged a look as the soldiers fanned out on the screen, establishing a careful perimeter.

Two figures emerged from the rear of the Pelican, their faces largely hidden from the camera at this range. Another party emerged from the smouldering wreckage of what had once been the Admin Tower. The two groups saluted one another. When they turned, Murphy and Rebecca sat up straight, recognising different people at the same time.

They both gasped.

They rewound, watched it a second time. And a third. Just to be sure.

"No…" Murphy murmured.

"Can't be." Rebecca agreed, unable to rip her eyes away from the screen.

"Zoom in." Murphy said, waggling his finger at the screen. "This changes everything."

"Uh, I'll try." Carl said. His fingers expertly tapped at the ancient keyboard.

It was choppy, heavily distorted, even pixelated in places, but the footage didn't lie. Rebecca went straight for her com.

"Rashid? Rashid are you there?"

A far raspier voice answered her. One she hadn't heard in a long, long time.

"Dr. Pearson. It's Eric."

"Eric?!" Rebecca gaped. "Where the hell have you been?! You know what, never mind. You're going to want to see this. You're _all_ going to want to see this."


	15. Chapter 14: Operation Bellerophon

" _Section Zero. We who do not exist._

 _We are the phantom presence that lurks between the cracks of Naval Intelligence; the all-seeing eye watching every move made, every step taken. Nothing is missed._

 _Or so the myth went. When I joined, the reality was far more mundane. Observation reports, highly encoded, to be filed twice a month. There were sophisticated surveillance protocols in place, certainly, but it was strictly an investigatory branch of Naval Intelligence; ensuring all projects were above board and in keeping with ONI's high internal standards. For all of Parangosky's dogmatic vigilance, there were no covert strike teams then, no emergency containment procedures or shadow operations to counter other shadow operations. Those came later, as the circumstances of the UNSC became more precarious, its leadership more jaded with age and perilous circumstance._

 _Now, it is an entirely different beast._

 _I continued my double life, spying on those closest to me. The II's, those that had survived the rigours of augmentation unscathed, had embraced the Mark IV system. Mjolnir had finally proven a success. Deployments against the Insurrectionists were comprehensive. Entire cells disappeared overnight. Four years passed, rebellion after rebellion being put down with brutal precision. At long last, we had our answer to the Insurrectionist Question._

 _I was not always there to witness their victories. My former line of work haunted me, as my faceless masters called upon my skillset, sending me here and there. I am a relic of a previous generation, disguised as a scientist and engineer, trained as a soldier. Clean-up work, the Admiral called it. The reality was somewhat less palatable. Not all of my targets were Insurrectionists._

 _As I travel, Section III continues to expand. For all the success of the Spartan-II Program, there were tragedies, more victims whose suffering must be witnessed here, in the pages of this journal. They are candidates who will never see combat first-hand. They are the broken ones, whose bodies rejected the augmentation forced upon them; their bodies twisted, their lives ruined._

 _Not all of the broken were damned, however. Some found roles as researchers, lending their considerable talents from the side-lines, content to cheer on mankind's tentative steps on a post-human journey, unable to walk it themselves. Others retired, afforded the best medical care; allowed to live out their days in relative peace. Or so we thought at the time._

 _One candidate did neither of these things. Serin Osman, formerly Serin_ _Ç_ _elik. Spartan-019. We found her on Cascade, a street waif long abandoned by her family. She has come far since then. Sharp and calculating, she retained the mental gifts bestowed upon her by the program; displaying a keen ambition and potential, even at that early stage. Parangosky herself took an interest in Osman's development._

 _Even then I knew to watch her, carefully."_

\- excerpt from a private journal, author unknown

* * *

Operation Bellerophon commenced as soon as Stape's official orders were broadcast across the civilian nets. Streets emptied.

All available APD units were committed to the containment of the riots spilling forth from the Refugee Zone; a more volatile echo of the civil disobedience that had precipitated martial law some six months prior. Grav-lines were shut down as a full lockdown was instituted; enforced by the colonial militia and supervised by the UNSC. Civilians flooded down the steps of the stations, guided by APD units tasked with enforcing the lockdown. They waved LED guide sticks, channelling the crowds toward their appointed dispersal routes.

The political response was every bit as negative as Amanda Jennings feared. The nets exploded in outrage, with more separatist extremists being quick to point out that, yet again, Administrator Jennings had been quick to cede authority to her jackbooted superiors. Others took a more moderate view, citing the shootouts in both the Refugee Zone and the Argjend War Museum as proof positive that terrorist agitators were active in the city, and that stern measures were simply an unfortunate necessity if order was to be maintained. Alastair Cummings, Jennings' chief political rival, pointed out that yet again, the people of Argjend were at risk from destabilising elements incited by the influx of Refugees. Debate raged, both spoken and digital.

None of the frenzied coverage made it off-world.

The old checkpoints returned. Stinger strips, concertina wire and armed patrols; each street corner a manned pillbox, as sirens split the air and marines tromped forth from their barracks, or hung from the back of transport Hogs; eyes impassive behind glare visors in their helmets, jaws working as they chewed tobacco, Chum™ and any other substance the regs permitted. Power-plants, the Starport – all key military and financial institutions were seized by the soldiers and swiftly garrisoned.

Khulov's men had to hide in back streets, or risk a brutal engagement against a highly trained and decidedly better equipped standing army. Dozens were arrested outright. K-9 units strained at leashes and snuffled pavement as they were led from street to street, alley to alley. Stape's crackdown was absolute.

Argjend was a sophisticated post-war city by Outer Colony standards. Air raid shelters were numerous, and worked into the city's architecture. Surface-to-air defences were state of the art. The culture was one borne from all too costly personal experience. Civilian disaster drills were keenly practiced by the law-abiding members of society. They dutifully returned to their homes or, if caught out in public, filed into shelters beneath the city.

The more cutting-edge offices in the centre of the city engaged their own private security measures, large blast shutters – once decorative panels or sheets of sleek chrome cladding – sliding into place with a grinding rumble; sealing shut with heavy thuds that sounded like closing tombs. Anti-air defences unfolded like blooming flowers; whirring on servo struts as auto-targeting computers calibrated and monitoring scopes periscope-twitched to life. Rail cannons, automated assault turrets and flak cannons. They spun on rooftops slowly, sweeping the sky with careful deliberation.

Chase's Pelican kissed down on the street. Reeve found Myers planted deep in the roof of a parked taxi. The entire top of the car had caved inward beneath him. Reeve helped him climb down, the metal warping further as he prised himself free.

"Status?" Chase asked.

"Green, Sir." Myers scowled, prodding at his missing teeth with an armoured finger.

"Good. We're losing time." Chase pressed Myers' helmet into his hands as they stepped aboard, before triggering the inter-squad link. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the lifting engines.

"All units, be advised; Sierra G239 is active within the AO. We believe they may be employing advanced stealth technology. Take no chances on this one: orders are to shoot on sight."

"Amen." Reeve murmured. He was still sore over the loss of his rifle. The Spartan unshipped a DMR from stores. In an urban environment like this, chances were high that any future engagements would be considerably closer.

"Do we have eyes on target?" Deng's voice crackled.

"Negative. We'll loop around and continue the pursuit of 451. Four and Five, reinforce Victory Plaza. General Stape's security is your top priority – Chimera's Laconia trained. We know their MO."

"Attack Pattern Hydra." growled Hendric.

"The very same. Waypoint markers have been updated; Operation Bellerophon is a go. Repeat, Operation Bellerophon is a go. Godspeed, gentlemen. Spartan Keller out."

* * *

The Crisis Control Centre's staff had been entirely been replaced by UNSC servicemen, handpicked by the general himself. APD desk jockeys were usurped from their stations, as men and women with uniform high and tight buzz cuts took their places. Military charts – physical and digital – were splayed out over tables as officers gathered around; jotting small notes with wax pencils and digital styluses as older plans were cross-referenced with more sophisticated wireframe models. Soon the room was warm with the heat of thickly packed bodies, abuzz with activity. Styrofoam cups and data-pads littered the edge of every display table.

Under General Stape's watchful gaze, the city hardened; readying itself for a war that had already started.

A war he intended to win.

* * *

"Captain on deck!"

Captain Reade of the UNSC _Carpathia_ smiled as her bridge crew stood to attention. She was a robust woman, silver haired and tough as boot leather when the situation called for it. The Carpathia had seen its share of conflict during the War. Reade had served aboard it ever since she was a cadet; back when the hull was gleaming and deck-plates unscarred. Nowadays, she felt every bit as weathered as the ship.

"At ease." Reade returned the salute smartly. "What do we have, Bakar?"

Reade's mousy coms officer was already waiting with a datapad. She handed it to Meade. She was young and talented. _Enjoy it while it lasts, kiddo._

"City-wide alert, authorised by General Stape as of 1340 Zulu Time. Martial law has been declared."

"Situation?"

"Official word is Insurrectionists, Ma'am. Rioting in the Western District, evidence of a terrorist attack in a major medical facility in the Central District and brushfire conflicts all over the city. Local police believed it to be gang affiliated, but General Stape's orders suggest otherwise."

"His orders?"

"The General has requested a complement of Broadsword fighters be placed on standby."

Reade exchanged a look with her executive officer, Commander Javadi. Evidently he shared her concern.

"And did the General explain at any stage why he wanted us to activate Broadswords?"

Bakar shook her head.

"No Ma'am. The request was for fighters on standby, armed for pursuit and bombardment if necessary. Operation code phrase is Bellerophon."

"Very well. Launch two fighters, have them adopt a holding pattern in the exosphere but no closer. This planet's had enough civil war as it is; I would rather avoid another mass-panic, no matter how the General feels."

Meade settled in her captain's chair.

"Mr. Tan, bring our weapon systems online and keep our powder dry. Yellow alert, broadcast to all hands."

"Aye, Ma'am, prepping systems now."

Javadi stroked his beard, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

"Expecting trouble, Ma'am?"

Reade studied the view from the main view screen, watching the marker buoys wink against the sweeping backdrop of the planet below.

"This is the Outer Colonies, Mr. Javadi. There's _always_ trouble."

* * *

Rashid let the marines escort him toward the elevators. He drew stares from the staff and patients they passed. Of course he did: he was the giant that lurked on the top floor; often talked about, seldom seen. What drew even more stares were the four armed soldiers escorting him. Military Police, bulky in their body plate; one of them lugging his Delving Deck under the crook of his arm. It wasn't every day you saw cutting edge military soldiers in the street, let alone the disinfectant flavoured halls of Havenwood Medical. The motorised wheels of the chair carried him along, squeaking against the hard plastic floor. The trooper had denied Rashid's request for a push.

This wasn't going to do. This wasn't going to do at all. Without his Delving Deck alive and actively transmitting, Eric and his team would lose communications with anyone relying on anything less than a Mjolnir-level com suite. Rebecca and Murphy would be on their own. Chidinma too, if Eric hadn't reached her in time. Unless Rashid did something, quickly.

As they pushed him toward the elevators, Rashid began to formulate a plan. He noticed the blue masking tape on the magazines of the MP's rifles. Stun rounds, designed for disabling rowdy troopers, or – in his case – mutinous Spartans. He spied an alarm button mounted on the wall, noted the thick floor seals that lined each and every threshold they passed through. This was a state of the art facility, with the very best Isolated Containment Unit on the planet. Germ-warfare, alien pathogens and chemical agents; there was no limit to the number of angles a potential bio-terrorist might take in the 26th century. Designed for disease prevention and bacterial quarantine, the entire building was capable of self-sealing in the event of a documented outbreak. The large biohazard symbol printed on the big red alarm button told him as much.

Another four guards awaited them at the far end of the hallway, standing vigil outside the elevators. There was one more doorway between them and the group escorting Rashid. Now or never then. Rashid took a deep breath.

And tipped his wheelchair over on its side, crying out in alarm.

One of the guards drew a bead on him instantly. Another two reflexively went to help him. Even without his Mjolnir plate, even as wasted as he felt from six months of laying idle, Rashid was easily over three hundred pounds of corded muscle and reinforced bone. They struggled between them as they hoisted the crippled giant up onto their shoulders, trying to prop him up on his one good leg. Another trooper wrestled with the wheelchair, attempting to right it.

That's when Rashid threw himself to the right, suddenly nimble; focusing all his power into his one good leg. The troopers were thrown off balance as he launched himself free. He hurled himself bodily toward the emergency containment alarm. The palm of his hand slapped it as he tumbled to the floor.

The result was bedlam.

Reinforced containment glass slammed down across every threshold in the building. Sprinklers hissed to life, soaking them in sterilising foam; temporarily blinding the troopers as their visors misted over. Red sirens and strobing emergency lighting washed through the downpour. Rashid was already scrambling on his hands. Months of physiotherapy had kept his arms strong, strong enough that when he hit the first trooper's ankle it was at considerable speed; spilling the trooper over Rashid's shoulder onto the floor. He collapsed to the floor with a splash.

The one trooper who hadn't gone to help Rashid struggled to take a shot, unable to get a clear line of fire past the wheelchair, past his stumbling comrades. Confusion reigned.

By then Rashid was suddenly at the trooper's feet. The Spartan reached up and clamped a hand onto the man's webbing. Rashid tugged, hauling the man off-balance. He stumbled straight into the stun rounds of his comrade, jerking and twitching as the rubberised rounds thumped into body armour with an electric sizzle.

Rashid's hand snaked out, snatching the boot knife from the disabled trooper's ankle sheath. With a slicing thump it embedded itself in the shooter's shoulder. The MP cried out, dropping his rifle as he collapsed; hands reflexively gripping at his wound. Rashid flopped forward in the foam, snatching up the fallen rifle. He rolled onto his back and triggered two clean bursts.

The two troopers clambering to their feet were smashed down once more, quivering as the stun rounds smacked home. Rashid lowered the rifle, took a deep breath.

Four downed MP's and an upturned wheelchair surrounded him. Not a bad result for a man with one leg.

The troopers by the elevator were now pressed against the glass, hammering at it, their blows softened to muffled thumps. Angry faces mouthed noiseless threats. Rashid ignored them, hauling the wheelchair upright and settling himself into it. He retrieved the Delving Deck, giving it a shake as the foam sopped from it. The disabled MP's would be on their feet in twenty minutes or so, and by that time he would need to devise a means of disabling the containment lockdown separating this section from the next one over. He would need to move quickly.

Wheels sloshing through the film of foamy-sop, Delving Deck balanced on his lap, Rashid made for the Prosthetics Department.

* * *

"Where are we going now?" Amanda demanded. Secret Service men clustered around her, worrying at ear-pieces like particularly well-muscled nannies. The corridors of the safe house were thick with them, as they pulled on rebreathers and mirrored eye-goggles. Somebody pressed a full HAZMAT suit into her hands. It was rubbery and spongy. She stared at it, incredulous.

"Please, Madame, put on the suit." Loic asked. "We have just received word of a possible biohazard incident at Havenwood Medical. This location is no longer secure."

The Spartans herded her outside toward the awaiting motorcade, surrounding her in a wall of green armour.

* * *

"Thirty seconds remaining on the stealth field, 239." Perry reported, glancing up to flick a switch above. "Opening rear hatch now."

There was a sudden thump of decompression as the rear hatch descended with a rumble. Bright sunshine seeping into the rear hold through the ever-widening aperture. The hull outside was a translucent blur. Chidinma's HUD flickered from interference cast off by the struggling stealth field.

Chidinma stood by the Booster Frame, watching the buildings and winding streets whip by; looking out over the horizon like a surfer contemplating the churning waves. Park was swaddled in his sealed flight suit, keeping a careful distance at the rear controls. He tapped a button on the console. There was a whirring sound as the Frame nosed toward the edge of the troop bay on an automated loading trolley, before clanking to a halt at the precipice. It hung there, locked in place by mechanical clamps that bit deep into holding points beneath the Frame's chassis.

"We've lost signal from 482." Eric was saying. "We have a limited window before Becker vanishes entirely. Mission priority is on re-establishing an uplink with Rashid, and finalising the counter-trace on that marker. Your role is provide fire support and ensure that happens."

"What about Rashid?" Chidinma shouted over the howling engines.

"I'll get to Rashid, Spartan. Just keep 451 alive."

Chidinma swung her leg over the saddle, settling her feet in the stirrups. She tapped two keys and the entire control display lit up. Her hands settled on the forward-sloping control yokes; similar to those of a Covenant Banshee. Her HUD flashed as it slaved the Frame's control system to her Mjolnir suite.

Eric stood at the edge of the ramp beside her, one hand on a safety grip.

"The light is green, Spartan." Eric confirmed. "Fly well."

Chidi thumbed a switch on one of the handle bars.

The anti-grav nacelles lining the the underside of the Frame activated with an ever rising hum. The Frame began to buck and wobble, rising from the floor but remaining tethered to the Condor. Then the locking teeth snapped open; the Frame hurtling free as it detached itself from the speeding dropship. Wind howled at Chidinma, rocking the airframe with a trembling shudder.

The Booster Frame fell toward earth, engines dark. The city screamed up toward her, as the howling wind battered the airframe, jostling it. The streamlined contours of her armour clicked and flexed as it micro-adjusted to compensate for the G-forces slamming against her.

Chidinma flicked the next activation stud. Long recurve wings snapped open with a metallic rasp. There was a shuddering jolt as pulse jets at the front the Frame vented to push the vehicle out of the screaming dive. When she balanced out she hit the next switch. Retro rockets blazed to life, surging her forward; engines flaring to full power. She shot away into the sky, angling round and soaring over the city. Skyscrapers flitted below her, the lines of cars rendered tiny on the streets below.

Behind her, the Condor shimmered into view, bulky wings and bulging Slipspace Drive a black shadow on the horizon as it rocketed in the opposite direction, toward Havenwood Medical.

Chidi opened the TAC-COM.

"Sierra 483, on-station and in position to provide aerial support. Chimera One, do you copy?"

* * *

"Solid copy Three!" Damien shouted over the roar of the engine, "What's your position?"

"Coming up on your six now, One."

Damien twisted in the saddle. There, in the distance; a rider, recurve wings, an underslung rail gun; little more than a cruciform speck at this range.

Then Chidinma was over to his right, racing through the sky. The sonic boom followed, reverberating against the high glass facades of the buildings around them. Chidinma chopped speed to match his own. She twisted in the saddle; flashed him a thumbs up. He returned the gesture.

"I would not miss it for the world, One."

It was just as well. A half dozen UNSC Warthogs snarled up the highway behind him. They had yet to take a shot, given the number of civilian vehicles still trying to vacate the city streets, but that would not last. Once the lockdown was fully in place, and the streets emptied of traffic, the gloves would come off.

The highways were large sky-bridges that looped around the city core, hemming in the Central District like an asphalt girdle. They were supported by massive granite archways, beneath which suspended grav-lines snaked their way throughout the city. Some of the bridges were taller than others, and often intersected; weaving complex figure of eight patterns across the city's topography. The buildings around the central core were considerably taller than Victory Plaza, which formed a shallow dimple in the heart of the city. These skyscrapers were icons of commerce, tall and foreboding towers of blue-mirrored glass, whose steel frames dazzled a brilliant silver in the high afternoon sun.

Right now Damien raced along Highway 03, a long stretch of road that led straight for the outer wall of Central District. The boundaries of Central were vaguely defined, vulnerable to rapid re-zonings at the whim of corporates looking to muddy area codes in favour of a more exclusive postal address.

Roadblocks had been established to curtail Damien's progress. APD patrol cars primarily, who had been demoted to a secondary role with the pronouncement of martial law. They were trying their utmost to slow the Spartan down, allowing more specialised military units to close the net.

Damien had already blasted through one such checkpoint, ducking low in the saddle as the police opened fire. They had upgraded to MA5 assault rifles, though they might as well have been firing blanks, such was the thickness of the Chopper's armour. The giant wheel bit clean through the spooled coils of razor wire, flattened the stinger strip and ploughed over the line of parked police cars, crunching bonnets and folding metal as it ground its way through with locomotive disregard. Officers threw themselves left and right as Damien shot by.

"Heads up." Chidi crackled over the inter-squad channel.

Another checkpoint lay ahead. Heavier duty this time; two police cars, framing a black armoured Armadillo troop carrier outfitted for SWAT duty. Black armoured officers crouched with rifles braced in a firing position. One officer lay prone atop one of the patrol cars, his eye pressed against the scope of an anti-material rifle perched on an extended bipod.

"No unnecessary casualties, Three." Damien sent back, "This isn't their fight. Just clear some room!"

"Solid copy, One."

Chidinma thumbed the red button on her flight yoke.

The large cannon affixed to the underside of the Booster Frame extended with a whirr of arching servos. It was considerably smaller than the gun mounted on a traditional Frame; where its brawnier cousin could split the battle plate of a Covenant cruiser, this was intended for somewhat more refined force application. The underslung barrel split lengthwise, revealing the long mass driver within. An electromagnetic crackle of energy tensed and coiled along the length of the driver, charging. Chidi sighted carefully.

She stabbed the button again.

A lance of blue energy banged out so violently the entire airframe rattled; striking the Armadillo so hard it shunted backwards on its wheels, screeching skid marks. The black hull glowed an orange-red as it slid to a halt. The shockwave burst the windows of the surrounding patrol cars; bowling men off their feet like skittles. Damien's Chopper growled as it wove through the gap, neatly slipping past the dented APC.

"Nice shot, Chidi!" Damien grinned.

A green acknowledgement light indicated her thanks. Then it flashed orange; a warning.

"Danger ahead, One."

Central District was separated into a series of hexagonal compartments, divided by impressive perimeter walls. While the majority of the skyscrapers far exceeded the height of the walls, each and every highway had to feed through bulkheads that would seal in the event Orbital One ever suffered a catastrophic event. They were precisely the kind of feature that a secondary settlement like New Cadiz had lacked; the kind of feature that would have averted the catastrophe.

Right now it presented an immediate obstacle to Damien. With a lock down in place, the door was sealed; not even the Chopper's 35 mm cannon would penetrate it.

"Can we blast through?"

"Negative. Those doors are designed to withstand orbital debris. The Frame won't make a dent."

Damien grappled with the control reigns, the grav-drive shrilling as he wrestled the Chopper into a long skid. Chidinma circled high and to the right, swooping around in covering pattern. The Warthogs were closing the distance; would outrun a Chopper in a straight distance run. The engine purred as he assessed his options, mind racing.

The Warthogs were rapidly closing the gap. Falcons whipped into view, appearing over buildings on the horizon. UNSC sharpshooters clung to the sides of commandeered APD fliers, their boots dangling from side hatches or resting on landing skids. The two Spartans watched the chase slowly draw to a close.

"Can't go around them." Damien said eventually.

"We cannot outrun them either." Chidinma said, nodding at the blast shield at their backs.

"Last remaining option, Three." Damien revved the engine. "We go _through_ 'em."

* * *

The Prosthetic Department was a fascinating place. A roboticist's dark fantasy, it was mutely lit, like a mausoleum for the mechanical. The floors, walls and ceilings were a dark onyx, bedecked with similarly dark furniture. Great glass displays showed off the numerous prostheses available: a somewhat ghoulish array of skeletal hands, mechanical arms and disembodied legs. They rotated on up-lit displays, like a car showroom for the macabre. The earlier models were all steel claws and twisting hooks; crude but functional. Later models were more sophisticated, with micro-servers approximating joints and nerves and knuckles. Some even had rudimentary artificial skin, ranging from the rubbery to the realistic. Rashid would have loved to explore the displays in greater detail.

Unfortunately, he was much too busy taking the department hostage.

He sat in the wheelchair, his Delving Deck propped on his lap. He had the MA5 in his hands, trained on the panicking huddle of technicians at the far end of the room. Rashid spoke slowly and loudly, with calm authority.

"I can assure all of you that it is not my intention to cause any further harm or undue stress beyond that which has already transpired. But also believe me when I say that _none_ of you will be permitted to leave until such time that I am capable of walking out of here on my own two feet. The sooner you help me, the sooner I can let you go. Is that clear?"

The robotics specialists and grafting engineers sobbed and clung to one other, senseless. Some held their hands up in surrender, pleading. Rashid felt immensely guilty. They were too busy cowering to provide any meaningful acknowledgement. Rashid sighed and put a round in the ceiling. More screaming. He wasn't getting through.

Time for the villainous approach, then.

" _Right_. Let's try this again, shall we? _I_ want a leg, and _you're_ going to give it to me. Or I'm going to start _executing_ you, one by one. Starting with the _youngest_."

Now that was a bald faced lie. But then the scientists had no idea his rifle was loaded with stun rounds. He certainly wasn't going to tell them that either.

"I… I'm afraid there's nothing here capable of accommodating a patient of your size, Spartan Datar."

One of the scientists stammered. He was a refined gentleman, taller than his companions. A pair of medical spectacles balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. They reflected all manner of diagnostic data up at him; presented him with a surgical HUD of sorts. He stood up, hands shaking. Internally, Rashid admired his bravery. Externally, he adopted a withering scowl.

"You. What's your name?"

"Professor Erickson. Thorvald Erickson." The doctor tilted his chin upward, a small measure of pride returning, "I am in charge of this facility."

"Professor Erickson."

The name rang a bell. Rashid's fingers chattered on the keyboard as he typed one-handed. The doctor's email correspondence, personnel file and all manner of sensitive information flashed up on the holo-display. Rashid's eyes moved left to right, taking it all in with astonishing speed. The assault rifle never wavered for a second.

"You're lying." Another two key strokes, double checking, "I was approved for mechanical fitting three months ago. Correspondence with one Dr. Heinrich Falk, your counterpart in Nova Merced, confirms as much."

The professor blanched. Rashid was still reading.

"You were stalling for time. Hoping to run tests on me… to determine what made me the way I am?" Rashid smiled as he tutted, pausing to make eye contact with the doctor, "Don't you know that's classified, Professor?"

"Please, I'll help you. Just let these people go."

"Certainly." Rashid smiled affably, as he stabbed a key on his deck. One of the containment doors at the far end of the hall swished open. "Out, all of you."

The professor blinked in surprise.

"Really?"

"Well not _you_ , Professor, obviously. But the rest of you? On you go now. Mush. _Shoo_."

There was a small stampede for the exit. The door hissed shut behind them, leaving Rashid alone with Professor Erickson. Rashid set the rifle down.

"Did you really think I was going to harm those people, Professor? That I'm some sort of terrorist; a butcher?" Rashid shook his head. "Honestly, I'm surprised at you. You've been spying on me for long enough."

"S-Spying?"

Rashid regarded him mildly, as a teacher might appraise a mischievous student.

"You think I didn't know? The intercepted communiqués, the hidden cameras laced throughout the walls of my room? That I didn't find them within a _week_ of arriving? That I hadn't already read those messages, learned of your intentions? Please, Professor; you're an _amateur_ , playing at a _professional's_ game. I've spent months counter-intruding your systems; I've owned them ever since one of your staff had the stupidity to hand me a data-pad a week after I woke up.

"I know everything about you; your habits, your daily routines. That affair you had with your intern fourteen months ago. I've read everything you've ever published, even the early stuff, before you knew what you were doing."

Professor Erickson gibbered something ineffectually. Rashid didn't let up for a second. He continued, relentless.

"Give me some credit, Professor. I'm a _Spartan_ , the culmination of some of the least ethical research the Office of Naval Intelligence ever sullied its hands with. I've been spied on for just about as long as I can remember. By people _far_ scarier than you, I can assure you. I merely wanted to see if you were going to be honest when I asked for you to assist me. You failed, as it happens. _Miserably_."

"You had us at gunpoint!"

"Oh, details!" Rashid snapped, "Here's the deal, Professor: you help me get the prosthetic I was owed, or, and this is a promise, not a threat; _you'll_ be needing a new prosthetic or three before this day is over."

They worked quickly, the giant and the skinny professor. It was an awkward partnership. There was no badness in Erickson, at least none that Rashid could find after spending months carefully snooping through the man's private files. A nosiness, perhaps, and a willingness to bend the rules to facilitate the illicit investigation such nosiness entailed, but nothing beyond that. Once it became clear that Rashid simply wanted to get moving and get out, the professor's willingness to aid him became all the more apparent.

With a snap the auto-surgeon's holding clamps locked Rashid's stump in place. The manifold arms worked quickly, rotating around the armature that encased his leg; one applied a film of antiseptic spray, another injecting a localised anaesthetic into the remains of his leg. Rashid kept the MA5 to hand - while the professor was unlikely to try anything at this point, Rashid was now at his most vulnerable.

In the background, the Delving Deck sat on a table on the far side of the room, rebooting. Rashid had killed the uplink as soon as he'd been disturbed. With hundreds of subroutines having been brutally severed, it would take the machine a few minutes to fully reset. As it slowly booted up, they worked side by side, the Professor and the Spartan; rebuilding Chimera Four as best they could. It was difficult work under adverse circumstances. The biocontainment alarms still hooted incessantly.

Neither heard Damien's calls for a sit-rep over the radio.

* * *

Rebecca, Murphy and Carl were trying to devise a means of transmitting the data to the others. Carl had the disc-reader rigged to a conversion program for widespread dissemination, but the nature of the tech meant it was going to take some time. They sat watching a progress bar, marvelling at how slow this was taking.

"It's the format." Carl explained helplessly.

"It's mind-numbing." Rebecca sighed, chin cupped in her hands.

Then the doorbell chimed a pleasant sing-song greeting. Everyone looked at each other. This was alarming. The store was, after all, closed.

Murphy stood up, reaching for his sidearm. Carl and Rebecca turned and stared up at him, alarmed. The footage had already instilled a healthy dose of paranoia. Murphy put a finger to his lips, and, stooping into a crouch, slipped through the door leading into the shop floor. He shuffled forward on his hands and knees, trying to avoid making a sound. He paused to listen.

Two sets of footsteps milled about the store. No, three. The talked quietly amongst themselves. Murphy didn't understand the language, but he recognised the sound of it. He'd served in the same theatre as some of the Eastern units before. They had all the trappings and equipment of a UNSC unit, but the insignias and private battle language were very much local colour. English was only used when communicating over standard com frequencies. Still, he had an ear for these things; knew the language when he heard it.

Somebody stepped up to the counter. A back-lit shadow; broad-shouldered, solidly built.

"Hello?" a voice calls out. Thickly accented. Definitely Eastern European.

Carl emerged, doing a decent job of not acknowledging Murphy, hunkering down right in front of him.

"Good afternoon, Sir." Carl smiled, the very epitome of customer service. He'd learned a lot about it in the past hour or so.

"We are looking for these people." The Russian said. Carl peered closer as though studying a photograph. "Have you seen them?"

"Uh… no," Carl blinked quickly, "I'm afraid our store is closed, so I haven't seen anyone here all day. Lockdown, y'know."

Carl wrapped up his closing argument with a high-pitched, nervous giggle.

Murphy's breath tightened in his chest. Carl was a dab hand at electronics, but acting was not his forte.

There was the longest pause. All Murphy could do was crouch there, tightly gripping his side-arm. The antics of the car chase earlier that day had taken its toll. His M6 only had a single magazine left.

"Are you sure?" the voice asked again. Murphy could imagine the face that went with it; stony-eyed, masculine to a fault, all but unblinking. The Russian mob did a particular brand of scary, and it was effective.

Carl nodded too many times. Sweat beaded his brow.

"Y-yeah, yes of course! I mean no, I haven't seen them! Total strangers! Sorry!"

Murphy waited for rough hands to appear over the counter, for Carl to start squealing.

Instead the men left, the door beeping as they exited. Murphy counted four beeps in total.

Something was awry.

Carl visibly sagged, planting his head hands on the counter.

"Oh God, thank god that's over."

Murphy's hand shot up, yanking the tech down behind the counter. Carl yelped in surprise as he fell.

Then the windows caved in, as a cacophony of gunfire raked the front of the shop. These guys were packing some serious heat. Murphy's ear picked out the sounds, trying to interpret the chaotic noise. He heard the spit-rattle of a submachine guns, and an MA5 on full-auto. One of the shooters added a pump-action shotgun the mix. Rack after rack of Chatterpads and info-slates detonated as impacting rounds peppered the back wall. Chips and plastic shards flew into the air, raining down over the counter and powdering them in a fine dust. Buckshot took glass display cabinets apart. Carl dug his fingers in his ears and howled.

"Stay down!" Murphy growled through gritted teeth. He clamped a hand over Carl's mouth. Carl stared at him, his breath pulsing against Murphy's palm; all but hyperventilating. They stared at each other, faces inches apart; Murphy willing the tech to stop making noise. Eventually Carl ran out of breath.

The deluge slackened. The last weapon to cease firing was a harsher bark, higher in pitch. A side-arm then. Hired guns, ill-disciplined. Murphy realised that with Damien leading the entire APD on a merry chase across the Central District, this pattern was probably being repeated all over the city.

The door beeped again. Once, twice, three times. Confirming the kill, making sure the message had been sent.

Footsteps crunched ever closer. Murphy narrowed his eyes, trying to pinpoint their location. Three targets; one from left, two on the right. The rest were probably on overwatch outside. No time to worry about them.

Murphy snapped above the counter, shoulders set; the M6 braced on the table. Two shots, centre mass.

The thug on the left folded without a word, his SMG triggering as he fell. Tufts of plaster sifted down from the snaking pattern it blasted in the roof. Murphy ducked back.

A storm of bullets hammered into the counter. Carl resumed screaming.

Murphy bellied along the floor, moving to the right, closer to the wall.

He popped up again. Another two rounds. He caught the next man in the forehead. The man's legs went out from under him, boneless.

The remaining shooter had a pistol trained on Murphy; had caught him dead to rights.

The goon pulled the trigger.

* * *

The patrol Genet had seen better days.

After fleeing the museum, Greggs had driven as far as they could south, away from the elephant graveyard of discarded APD vehicles; high on adrenaline and terror. Edgerton had eventually persuaded him to pull over by a Re-Station. Like most of the streets around them, the place was devoid of life. Some water pumps for fusion engines, a shuttered up store for odds and ends. The floodlights were on in the forecourt, but nobody was home. Sirens and warning klaxons echoed in the distance. Edgerton sat on the bonnet of the car, watching as his city became a fortress. A cigarette perched in his mouth. It did little to calm his shaking hands.

Greggs was buried elbows deep in what was left of the dashboard's on-board computer. Like the bonnet of the car, it was stitched with bullet holes. They had to smash what was left of the windshield just so they could see past the spider web cracks. The map display fizzled and sparked as Greggs pulled at wires and circuits unseen.

Edgerton twisted about, flicking ash onto the road surface.

"So what are we looking at, Greggs?"

Greggs heaved a sigh as he flopped back in his seat.

"I've replaced the burst tire, but the GPS is shot. Auto-nav too. Radio is functional, but that's about all we've got. There's been a general recall of all units, sector-wide. Apparently, it's the military's show now."

Edgerton watched as an open-top cargo transport loaded with marines rumbled by. He took another drag on the smoke.

"Lot of that going around today."

"You don't agree with it?" Greggs joined Edgerton on the bonnet, hands in his pockets. He refused the box of cigarettes Edgerton offered him. He was trying to quit.

"Hell, I agree with it. I'm not going up against a Spartan, no sir. But I've been thinking."

Edgerton was a slow-moving investigator, by the standards of the APD Homicide Department; careful, deliberate, perhaps to a fault. He drove most of the other detectives crazy, such was his methodical, protracted style. But there was no shortage of brilliance to the man; he'd worked as a data analyst for a reason. When he had a theory, Greggs - a wild polecat of a man, tenacious and stubborn despite his diminutive height - would be the first to listen.

"Go on."

"The bodies at the warehouse. Special Forces, right? Body-suits, no insignia, no tags. Gear they carried was bleeding-edge, man. Hard-core stuff. Media are saying it's Insurgent activity; more Innie rioting, some shit like that. But we were first there, and I sure as hell didn't see any bodies like the one's they're showing, and you didn't either."

Edgerton flicked the cigarette butt down onto the hardpan, stubbing it out with his toe.

"Then you've got another element on the loose. A Spartan. Takes apart just about every SWAT soldier the APD throws at it. Then we get the recall. And now-" a Falcon trilled overhead, festooned with armed soldiers. Edgerton nods up at them. "You've got the entire UNSC hauling ass over the city, putting the APD on perimeter duty."

"So what are you saying, Edge? That it's an internal thing? Some kind of black ops, eyes-only bullshit?"

Edgerton fixed Greggs with a solemn stare.

"I'm saying shit doesn't add up, my friend. For one thing, that story the media's putting out, that ain't true. Innies don't have Spartans. It's _way_ above their pay grade."

"Don't need a case file to tell me that. So what's your read, then? A deserter?"

"I don't know what my read is. Need more data. Can't build a case without evidence. But if it smells dirty, and looks dirty, then it probably is dirty." Edgerton had produced another cigarette, lit it smoothly. "Somebody's cleaning house, one way or another."

"I don't know, man. Spartans are involved: I think you and I will be long dead before any of this shit gets declassified."

Edgerton raised an eyebrow at him.

"Unless…"

Greggs knew that look. It was the same look that kept cases open for months far longer than they otherwise should be; that made great arrests and prompted Major Crimes' intervention.

"No, Edge. Fuck no. I'm not getting involved in this, and neither are you. ONI wants to bury its skeletons, I say let 'em."

"Look Greggs, all I'm saying is that, for me, this shit's personal. They take our case, they pollute our crime scene; worst of all, they shot up our _motherfuckin'_ car. This is our city. We are the _Argjend_ Police Department. Now some police might want to go stick on a riot helmet, be a good little dogsbody for those soldier boys, but as I see it, this case just got a whole lot bigger than a shoot-out in the 'Zone. And I intend to find out why."

Greggs nodded at that, thinking of the dismissive treatment the 'Zone clean-up crew had given him; of the wildly contrasting story the nets had carried in the hours since they'd been reassigned.

"Fuck it, I'm in."

"Amen, brother. Welcome to the crusade."

The two cops bumped knuckles.

"So where do we start?"

"Museum's a no-go. Not with that crazy Spartan on the loose. Warehouse scene is a bust too; whoever those spooks were, they're not the type to leave any traces, as I see it." Edgerton stood up and moved around to the passenger seat. His fingers prodded at the battered police computer, the scanner too.

"We stay on the radio. We stay mobile. Anything suspicious goes down, we haul ass there and get to it before anyone else can."

They didn't have to wait long. An emergency dispatch warbled from the police scanner. Reports of gunshots at the Underpass, a popular Central mall. It was beyond the operational border of the military exclusion zone.

"Think it's related?" Greggs asked as he banged the door shut, pulling on his seat belt.

"Night like this? _Everything's_ related."

* * *

 _Click._

The top-slide had already snapped backward, locking in place; hungry for a new magazine. The goon's eyes bulged in disbelief; in his frenzy to draw on Murphy, he hadn't noticed his mag was empty. Then he swore and started for the door, arms flapping.

"Sloppy." Murphy muttered, taking aim.

A single round clipped the guy in the back of his thigh. The thug yelped and tottered to the floor, the spent weapon spilling from his hands.

Murphy vaulted the counter and kept his pistol trained on the downed man. Maintaining aggression was essential in this situation. Murphy planted his boot on the man's bullet wound. The thug shrieked. Murphy grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around onto his back. He shoved the pistol into the man's cheek, so tightly the flesh bulged up around the barrel.

"Ammo discipline." Murphy sneered, "If you _fucks_ knew what you were playing at you, wouldn't be in this position."

Murphy heard a heavy crunch. He looked up at a heavy pair of boots right in front of his face. He looked slightly higher, and found himself staring down the barrel of an MA5 assault rifle at point blank range.

Ah, yes. There had been four shooters.

"That'll teach me." Murphy sighed, slowly setting his gun down and rising to his feet, hands raised.

The guy holding the rifle was another identikit merc; this time sporting a bushy beard and a nose piercing. He kept the MA5 jammed in Murphy's face.

"Of course there's one thing you're forgetting." Murphy continued, "My partner's behind you."

It was ridiculous. It was never going to work.

The goon actually started laughing; a gap-toothed chuckled. Murphy laughed along with him, maintaining eye contact. Then Murphy's eyes skipped over the man's shoulder, and back again, as though conferring with a creeping team-mate.

The man glanced, a half-second glance. It was all Murphy needed. One of his hands slapped the barrel of the MA5 aside. The other gripped the thug's forearm, squeezing a very specific point along the ulnar nerve. Murphy was deafened as the rifle discharged inches from his face; the muzzle flash searing his face. He didn't care. The rifle slipped free of the thug's grip, sliding into Murphy's arms. He released the thug's wrist, gripped the rifle by the bottom of the stock.

Then he slammed the rifle up into the man's jaw. Teeth clacked together audibly. Blood gushed from his mouth. Murphy had the rifle turned in an instant, covering the downed men. The second thug gibbered as the blood welling in his mouth poured freely down his chin; matting his beard. He'd bitten through his own tongue.

Murphy snapped the rifle to one survivor whose face wasn't drooling blood.

"You, talk!" Murphy snapped, the volume of his voice all wrong in his head. It sounded muffled, as though from the end of a long tunnel stuffed with towels. Burst ear-drum. The keening ringing sound that refused to subside told him that well enough.

The man's lips were moving. Murphy hadn't a clue what they were saying.

"Carl!" Murphy called. At least he think he called. The ringing sound was unrelenting. "Get over here!"

Rebecca appeared. She was mouthing something too.

* * *

Murphy was bellowing at the top of his lungs.

Rebecca hurried past Carl, who was still cowering behind the counter.

"Make sure the file conversion finishes." Rebecca said to him, giving him a shove for a good measure. Carl nodded, collecting his wits, and disappeared out back.

"Murphy, we need to get moving."

The operative didn't reply, he kept the rifle trained on the two miserable thugs prostrate on the floor.

"I said we need to get out of here!" Rebecca yelled again.

There was no recognition in Murphy's eyes. He held the gun on the two wounded men. Blood was streaming from his left ear. His mouth worked open and closed like some kind of beached fish as he tried to clear his ears. Then he finally blinked and noticed her.

"WHAT?" he bellowed. Rebecca flinched.

Blood was pouring out of Murphy's left ear. The right wasn't faring too well either.

"I HONESTLY CAN'T MAKE OUT A WORD YOU'RE SAYING!"

Rebecca sighed. Great, her sole remaining bodyguard was now completely deaf. She tried military sign language. A number of her patients had been hard of hearing after the war. Plasma shelling, proximity to friendly artillery fire and prolonged exposure to decibel levels far in excess of recommended levels, partial or even complete deafness was one of the most common conditions for civilians and service personnel alike. Surgery could restore hearing in relatively short order but the waiting lists had been extensive. It had been more prudent to simply learn how to sign, and help the more immediate PTSD cases when they were at their most vulnerable.

+We need to move. Now!+ she signed.

Murphy nodded.

"ASK THEM WHO THEY'RE WORKING FOR!"

+NOT SO LOUD+ Rebecca's hands all but flapped as they signed furiously. Murphy nodded in solemn understanding.

" _Ask them who they're working for."_ Murphy repeated in a stage whisper.

"Khulov! Khulov sent us!" the leg-shot thug managed. He looked awfully pale. "Please, we have no choice. He will kill us if we say no!"

Rebecca didn't know the sign language for malevolent Russian crime boss, but Murphy seemed to get the idea based on the fear in the thug's eyes.

" _We're leaving."_ Murphy said. It would have sounded decisive, were it not for the ridiculous stage whisper again, " _Search them for keys."_

Rebecca found an entry swipe in the tongue-less goon's pocket; a TurboGen flatbed. She also took both their wallets and all their credits for a good measure.

Carl emerged from the back room.

"It's ready." Carl panted, holding up a memory card.

"Excellent." Rebecca said, touching her ear-piece. "Eric, it's Rebecca. You there?"

Nothing. Maybe it was interference from being underground.

"Rashid?"

Static answered. The entire link was seemingly down.

+I can't get through.+ Rebecca signed. +Nobody is answering.+

"Doesn't matter." Murphy replied, his voice louder but oddly disjointed, as though he had blaring headphones in his ears. "We need to get out of here."

"Carl, you're coming too." Rebecca said.

"M-me? My entire store just got trashed!" Carl cried. He pointed at Murphy. "You just _killed_ two people! I need to call the police!"

"Believe me when I say that's not an option. And if you stay here, chances are these guys' friends are going to come knocking."

Carl had no argument for that. His mouth worked up and down a few times. Rebecca didn't waste time waiting for him.

They stepped out onto the mall, glass crunching underfoot.

"We'll need wheels, transportation, some kind of –"

"Drop your weapon!"

Rebecca and Carl froze, hands shooting for the sky. Murphy, his back turned to the source of the sound, kept walking.

"I said freeze!"

Murphy kept walking, oblivious.

Three shots clipped him. He spun to the floor without a sound. Rebecca and Carl kept their hands in the air, terrified.

Officers Edgerton and Greggs advanced on them, side-arms drawn. Beside them was the body of the mall security cop; another hapless victim of Khulov's hired guns. The man's headphones were loose, and blared the faintest tinny after-beat.

"Don't move!" Greggs barked, "Hands behind your head, legs spread!"

Rebecca and Carl lay down on the ground, hands behind their heads. Rebecca twisted her head about to look toward where Murphy's body had fallen.

The spy lay still on the ground, unmoving; his head turned away from hers. The MA5 lay just beyond his reach.

Blood pooled across the floor, warm against the cool tiles.

* * *

Becker stood over the hushed casket, dressed in a white lab coat. He studied the readouts with intent. They were close. So perilously close!

McBride appeared beside him. For such a large man, he moved with alarmingly subtlety. All of Blackshard did.

"Semion Khulov's men are out combing the streets for you, Sir."

Becker set his datapad down, lips pursed.

"Are they now?"

"He believes the Spartan's interference was your doing. He wants blood."

Becker looked over at the second cryogenic tube to his left; mulling this over. _Every crisis, an opportunity_. Misdirection was everything in times like these.

"Blood? I suspect we may have to give him a damn sight more than that."

Becker shrugged off the lab coat, revealing the form-fitting body armour he always wore. He pulled on his black coat, buttoning it smartly.

"Prep a transport, and have your team ready. We'll deal with this directly."


	16. Chapter 15: Containment

" _2525\. The year everything changed._

 _Henceforth, textbooks will be forced to make the distinction Humanity out of necessity, for we are not alone in this universe. The wonder the galaxy once held is gone, replaced by a deeper uncertainty. For the first time in recorded human history, mankind has made contact with an alien race. The contact was not peaceful._

 _It was a border skirmish, initially. A brush-fire war, centred on the Outer Colony Harvest. Attempts at finding a diplomatic solution proved unsuccessful. The aliens' intentions were, at first, unclear, but they soon became evident. The entire colony was evacuated, it's orbital tethers destroyed. Orbital plasma bombardment demonstrated the aliens' military power, and the genocidal ambitions that accompanied it. It foreshadowed the coming storm._

 _Our world is upended. The Spartan program is re-tasked; prioritising the new threat. Section Zero's position on the Spartan program shifts from lingering suspicion to outright support. Halsey's team crest a wave of goodwill borne from equal parts fear and desperate hope. We are afforded more funding, more resources, and more personnel. Prosecuting the Insurrection becomes a distant memory._

 _ONI undergoes a metamorphosis of sorts, too. Vast resources are directed to bolstering its logistical capacity. Section Three is to be given the unquestioning support of the UNSC. Numerous blank cheques are cashed. Rapid advances are made. My role as a mole becomes a trivial afterthought, for reasons that are immediately apparent._

 _This new enemy's technology far outstrips our own. Their fleets are more manoeuvrable, with a command of Slipspace that renders ours appear seemingly infantile by comparison. Their weapons are more sophisticated, their technology more advanced. More colonies are lost, as an inexorable tide of destruction rolls deeper into UEG territory. Entire colonies go dark. The death toll is catastrophic. Our past fears of the Insurrection now seem quaint by comparison._

 _We soon learn the name of our new enemy. They call themselves the Covenant; a religious coalition of like-minded alien races, as varied and numerous as they are fanatical. Our destruction is the will of their gods, and they are the tool._

 _But the Covenant do not find us easy prey. War-making has always been one of mankind's finest skills. From Troy to Thermopylae, from the Somme to Stalingrad; dogged entrenchment is a long-practiced tradition threaded throughout the fabric of human history. The losses inflicted upon the marauding Covenant are devastating. And yet their war machine rolls inexorably into UEG territory; their numbers seemingly infinite. For all our determination, for all our rabid defiance, we are losing. The loss of human life is unprecedented._

 _I am assigned to a forward intelligence position, tasked with monitoring the alien advance as part of a Prowler detail. It is here where I become an acquaintance of one Quintus Adams, a young but talented field operative. Together we chart mankind's destruction, observing as the frontline faces setback after setback._

 _Together, we document our impending extinction as a species."_

\- excerpt from a private record, author unknown

* * *

It was tense work, not helped by the droning sirens of the biocontainment breach. Eventually the pincers and plasma fitters folded back on their mechanical arms, retracting into the ceiling panels. Professor Erickson scrutinised the vitals on the monitor for a moment, before nodding once, satisfied. He keyed a button on the display.

The armature encasing Rashid's leg snapped open.

Hesitantly, like a foal finding its feet, Rashid Datar stood on two legs for the first time in six months. The first steps were wobbling; tentative and uncertain. His advanced nervous system was already pumping out the effects of the localised anaesthetic, the seams of his flesh raw where the biological met the mechanical. But there was no mistaking the rush of euphoria coursing through his veins.

His hands clung to the edge of the operating table, gripping it tightly.

"Excellent work, Professor. You have my thanks."

"Your synchronisation rate with the hardware will improve over time." Erickson explained, "Ordinarily I would suggest two months physiotherapy, as your body adapts to the subtleties of weight distribution and micro-motor function. Somehow I don't think you'll be afforded that luxury."

The alarms snapped off, abruptly. Rotor blades rattled the windows in their frames.

"An astute observation, Professor."

Rashid released the table, balancing his own weight. Mechanical servos whirred as he stomped down from the op platform, clumsily. He wobbled over to his Delving Deck. He clipped on his ear-piece, tapping in a brief series of instructions.

A door on the far side of the chamber hissed open.

"I am nothing if not a man of my word, Professor. I would suggest heading in the opposite direction to me; this is only going to get messier before it's over. Oh, and do try to stay away from the windows; there's no telling how trigger happy these people are."

Rashid stood tall, the assault rifle in one hand, data tablet balanced in the other.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I really must be going."

* * *

The men gathered in a dockside warehouse in the Eastern Harbour. It was entirely empty but for the assembly of vehicles arrayed in a wide circle; some stately cars, others utilitarian transport trucks or storage vans. Lonely cranes dangled above them; all menacing chains and idle gantries. Some thirty men had assembled, hardened killers all. Mercenaries and thugs, enforcers and hired guns. It was as many as Khulov could assemble on such short notice. The intelligence had only just come through.

It was everything he wanted to hear.

It was Mikhail who delivered the information. His face was still heavily pockmarked with cuts from the abortive hit; a raw reminder of Khulov's humiliation. He passed the datapad to Zolov, who relayed the news, as to-the-point as ever.

"We have a lead on Elias Becker's location."

"Go on."

"Word from our contact in the APD. There's a motorcade enroute from a secure UEG compound, moving along Highway 9. Heavy escort. Our source believes its senior enough to be Becker."

"You trust this man?"

"He's given us witnesses before, boss. Several times."

Khulov scratched at his jowls, nodded once, sniffing as he looked down at his shoes. He always did this before making a big decision.

On a ledge high above, hidden eyes watched the meeting unfold.

"Think he bought it?" McBride asked, staring through a high-power scope. They were perched on a gantry, far removed from Khulov's assembly. Four armed operators lurked nearby, providing perimeter security. They were only a small part of his new strike force, bedecked in the very latest military hardware.

McBride's role was asset control. Khulov's task had been to contain the Cadiz Tape, but with a lockdown in place, the situation had escalated far beyond the crime boss' capacity to get the job done. It was unfortunate, but oftentimes in operations like this a problem could present an opportunity.

Albert Cox was still dressed in the bodysuit of an APD officer, though he looked significantly different having shed the bulky riot armour. Like McBride, the neural lace at the rear of his skull had been removed; one of the few tell-tale signs of Blackshard membership. His posting had been a less physically active role than McBride's; his body had softened, but his instincts remained as sharp as ever.

"Want to tell a big lie?" replied Cox, "Tell a lot of small truths first. We've fed them enough to be a credible source."

"I'm aware. Becker just wants to know if this will contain Khulov long enough to get off-world. After that it won't matter. None of it will."

"It should. Jennings is a thorn in Khulov's side. If her proposed crackdowns go through, the entire local operation is at risk. Who knows, maybe the old man will end up doing himself a favour."

"Not likely. Trident's on that security detail. Has been for months."

"Two birds, one stone." Cox shrugged, "In any case, I'll need a new cover after this. Khulov doesn't mess around."

"Relax, we're done here." McBride lowered the scope, his expression frank. "Orders are to return to the lab and secure the perimeter. We're bringing everyone in. A few short hours, then we're finally getting off this rock."

"You serious? Arrowhead is complete?"

"Almost."

Cox's ear-piece buzzed. He listened carefully, before replying with a smirk. McBride glanced at him.

"Trouble?"

"Quite the opposite. APD Control just reported an arrest in Central District. Female, late twenties and a military-trained male, late thirties. Suspects match the description of our friends from the 'Zone. Looks like the Cadiz Tape crew."

"I'll send a strike team immediately."

"Negative, not with a lockdown in place. Things are hot enough already. I'll go myself."

"Fine. Deal with it, quickly."

Cox checked his sidearm. An M6D, fully loaded. McBride stopped him with a forestalling hand.

"No mistakes, Cox. The boss doesn't want the UNSC to know we're coming. Containing that tape is mission-critical."

"Oh, don't you worry. This won't take long."

* * *

"Stay down!"

Carl was hyperventilating. Rebecca kept her cheek pressed to the floor, hands splayed, silently thankful that the glass of the store had blown inward.

Murphy was breathing, albeit shallowly. For how much longer was debatable. There was a lot of blood.

A knee planted itself heavily against her lower back. Rough hands cuffed her. Rebecca gritted her teeth but made no sound. By the time the pressure released, her hands were tightly secured behind her back. Loathe as she was to admit it, she was getting all too used to this drill.

She watched as one of the cops rolled Murphy onto his back, popping open the front of his blood soaked overalls. His body armour had caught two of the rounds. The third had punctured his lower mid-section, toward the kidney.

"Jesus, Edge, you got him good. Gut shot." The shorter cop grimaced. "That museum piece of yours packs a punch."

The taller, dark-skinned cop was busy policing the discarded assault rifle. From the way he handled it, he knew what he was doing. This was not surprising: most of the APD had served in one capacity or another. He spared a glance at Murphy, grimaced.

"Get the med-kit, Greggs. I don't want to be writing reports for the next six months."

"Fuck that - you shot him."

Edgerton fixed him with a glare. He was too busy repeating their request for backup.

Greggs shrugged, his weapon up and sweeping. He moved forward into the store, out of Rebecca's line of sight.

Edgerton noticed Rebecca watching him. "You mind explaining what went on here, Ma'am?"

Rebecca lifted her head from the ground, offering him a livid scowl.

"You see that blood coming out of his ears?" Rebecca glowered. "His eardrums burst. Murphy saved our lives. Carl here owns the store, he'll tell you."

"A-actually I just rent the place –"

"Not _now_ , Carl!" Rebecca spat, returning to look at Edgerton, nodding. "Go on. Check inside the store if you don't believe me."

His partner already had.

"Edge, you'd better get in here!"

Both cops disappeared out of sight. She could hear crunching glass as they moved about inside; the rasping snick of more cuffs snapping shut.

"Murphy!" Rebecca hissed the second they were gone. No response. She tried again. "Murphy!"

The spy had gone remarkably pale. His eyes remained closed, but he kept his hands on the wound, applying pressure. Good, he was still rational enough to try minimising the trauma.

There was a commotion as the cops manhandled the two surviving thugs out of the store, shoving them roughly down beside Rebecca. The man with no tongue had all but passed out, his chin a dribbling ruin. The other man just glared at her, silently fuming.

"Any idea?" Greggs asked, dusting his hands as he stepped back from the heap of prisoners.

Edgerton shook his head.

"Get a sit-rep on our back-up and get the med-kit, Greggs; I'll keep 'em covered."

The situation had escalated with the discovery of the hitmen in the store: the shell casings, the anything-goes, no-kill-like-overkill force application. Both men knew the street. They recognised Boss Khulov's work when they saw it. All pretence of attitude was gone from Greggs' demeanour, replaced by a crisp efficiency.

"On it."

Edgerton paced back and forth around the scene, careful not to disturb anything, as Greggs disappeared further up the corridor. Edgerton stroked at his goatee, musing aloud.

"See, I know these two fuckups. Charge sheets longer than your arm." Edgerton began, slowly, "And the bodies inside? Well… far as I'm concerned, you just might have just done the proud city of Argjend a favour."

His partner returned with an emergency aid kit; administering biofoam to Murphy and the tongue-deprived merc. Edgerton hunkered down before Rebecca, waggling a disapproving finger in her face.

"But that doesn't give you licence to go dropping bodies in my city. Hell, this isn't even our district, but we're Homicide. True police."

"Last of dyin' breed." Greggs agreed over his shoulder.

"And being true police, we wanna know why you're crazy enough to run around during a lockdown, getting chased by scumbags with enough hardware to make even my old quartermaster blush."

Greggs, now thoroughly spooked, shook his head.

"This is crazy, Edge. Let's bring 'em in, deal with it downtown."

Rebecca shook her head adamantly, finding her voice. She kept it level.

"You bring us in, we're dead. Every single one of us. Including _you_."

"That a threat, Ma'am?" Edgerton asked sternly.

"A guarantee, Detective. This goes way above you or me."

"I'll bet. How 'bout you start by telling us who you people really are?"

To their surprise it was Murphy who answered. Evidently some degree of hearing had returned.

"Murphy, Brendan, Staff Sergeant," he rasped feebly, eyes half-open. "98349-31337BM"

Edgerton and Greggs exchanged a look.

"Run it through." Edgerton nodded.

Like most cops, Greggs had an APD TACPAD tucked beneath the sleeve of his overcoat. He asked Murphy to repeat the service number, tapped it in. His eyes widened.

"Holy shit. Our boy here is ODST. This is some hard-core stuff, Edge." He scrolled down, reading. "Twenty year service record; enlisted in the Marines at eighteen; Force Recon two years later. Graduated to ODST on the first intake." A low whistle, "Medal of Honour recipient, 2552."

"Hell, we should be saluting you, Helljumper! A regular boy scout." Edgerton said, eyebrows raised.

Greggs' eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Or not. Says here you died three years ago, Sergeant. Drop accident on Bliss."

"That's the official word." Murphy groaned, hands curling around his stomach. The biofoam had stemmed the bleeding; the pain-stims slowly filling his stomach with a spreading, numbing emptiness. His eyes were lolling about in his head, unfocused. "Takes a lot more than that to kill a bastard like me."

"We're ONI." Rebecca interjected suddenly. Both cops blinked at her, before she clarified. "Well, _he_ is. I'm Rebecca Pearson. Civilian contractor, working with the Spartan program out of Laconia."

"Laconia?" Greggs scoffed, "Never heard of it."

"Because you don't have the _clearance_ , Detective."

She saw the look of scepticism that passed between the two cops. She fed them her contractor ID. Most of her records were sealed now, had been ever since Carter took her on, seemingly a lifetime ago. But the black bars and redacted assignment postings were enough to pique their interest.

Rebecca did her best to explain what had happened: the drop at the market, the kidnapping, the shoot-out in the 'Zone and Damien's timely intervention. About Murphy's mission to eliminate Elias Becker. She made no mention of Fenton or Watanabe.

For their part, the detectives said nothing beyond confirming the occasional detail here and there. Most of it sounded outlandish, even to her ears; crazy beyond all reason. Nevertheless, they exchanged a surprised look here and there. Parts of what she said seemed to confirm what they had suspected.

"And these guys here, they're working for this Becker guy?" Edgerton asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Detective."

Edgerton ran a hand through his hair. Greggs shook his head.

"Screw this, Edge. This is messy… too messy. Let somebody from Central deal with it. When forensics get down here, we'll pull ballistics and tie our boy scout here to the bodies. Self-defence, witness protection. Case closed."

Edgerton didn't react at first. He studied the look of earnest determination on Rebecca's face, then looked at the bloodied criminals, the broken shopfront and carpet of shell-casings that littered the mall. Puzzle pieces began sliding into place within his mind. Still, a healthy level of doubt lingered.

"Let's say we believe you." He said slowly, exchanging a cautious look with Greggs, "That this is some kind of black-op, hocus-pocus, cloak and dagger shit. What proof do you have?"

A smile formed on Rebecca's lips.

"I don't." Rebecca said, enjoying the look on their faces, "But Carl does. Right there, in his left pocket."

Before Edgerton could move, a voice shouted.

"APD, coming through!" a gruff voice shouted. Heavy footsteps approached, ringing off the tiles.

Everyone looked around. A single officer approached, dressed in riot gear. He had his faceplate pushed back to reveal his grizzled and slightly puffy face.

Greggs met him halfway.

Rebecca frowned. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't quite place it.

"That was fast." Greggs greeted, hands spread. "Detective Greggs, Homicide. Where's the relief?"

"You're looking at it." Cox flashed his badge, his shrug exaggerated by the plating of his armour. "Sergeant Aldrich, Western District. Everyone's stretched thin with the 'Zone boiling over like it is; was coming back off shift when the call came through. What we got?"

Greggs and the new arrival began walking back together.

"Five suspects, three bodies. Whole lotta hardware, likely gang related." Greggs shot Cox an aside look, "Get this: chick here says they're ONI."

"No shit?"

"Yeah, pretty crazy, right?"

Greggs looked tiny compared to the bulk of Cox. The swagger of the armour aside, Rebecca noticed a certain steel in the man's posture. Another veteran. Still, that unsettling feeling grew; cinching the knot in her stomach. It only tightened further when he drew closer.

Then the penny dropped like a meteor, and her heart froze.

The bulbous nose, the puffy face encased by the riot helmet. It was the same cop from the Western checkpoint. The same man who had waved them through; who had been the only man to interact with them as they moved from the 'Zone into the city proper. The only man who had been close enough to the 'Hog to plant the tracking device that had dogged their every attempt at escape.

Maybe she was being paranoid, but after all she'd been through, it seemed paranoia was an asset rather than a liability.

Rebecca looked away, quickly, trying to hide the flare of recognition in her eyes. Her heart started racing. Her hands were still cinched behind her back. They were utterly helpless.

She turned and looked at Edgerton, eyes pleading. He noticed, but didn't say anything.

It was extremely rare for a homicide team to be first responders to a scene. It was the dutiful men and women of APD Patrol that took calls like this. They secured the crime scene, sealing it off in an effort to try and preserve as much evidence as possible. A support call would bring in the detectives after the fact, along with a forensics team and city coroner. To receive a single officer in response to a call was most unusual.

But then this wasn't any normal day.

"Detective Lester Edgerton." Edgerton said, offering a smooth smile, "Glad you could join us, Sergeant."

"Glad to be here." Cox whistled as he took in the scene. "Quite the mess. You guys first here?"

"Got lucky. We were in the neighbourhood when the call was made. We think it was the security guard; caught a couple of strays for his trouble."

"Passed him on the way in. Poor bastard."

Rebecca began signing furiously behind her back. She couldn't see her hands, couldn't tell if Murphy could make out what she was signing correctly. The angle was all wrong. Even so, she persisted; repeated the same alternating, two word message, over and over.

+Danger. Here. Danger. Here.+

* * *

Damien gunned the Chopper, belting forward toward the incoming Warthogs.

Chidinma zoomed forward above him. The front of the wings snapped open; humming a whirring click as the tips of a half-dozen small rockets slid forth, emerging like vampire's teeth. The rail cannon hummed as it prepared to fire.

"Now, Three!"

Chidinma unloaded. Full spread on a single target. Rockets spat forth with a hiss-sneeze, splintering into a half dozen micro-rockets which in turn activated, jetting forward; curling contrails as they spun closer toward the marker designated in her HUD. A rippling cloudburst of surging fire filled the horizon, right as the twinned cannons spun into life; a red tornado of fire arcing into the maelstrom. The mass-driver thumped, once; throwing up an obscuring geyser of black dust and pelting debris.

Warthogs skidded through the descending shower, squealing left and right; blinded by the deluge that had fallen a scant few metres short of them. One flipped on its side, bounced twice and landed neatly on all four wheels. Its passengers lost their lunch messily over the dashboard.

Damien's bike smashed through the mist, thrusters flaring. One 'Hog got too close, and lost a front bumper for its trouble; the Chopper's monstrous front wheel devouring it wholesale in a descending crunch of compacting metal.

Chimera One ripped through the mayhem, sparing a glance behind him.

The Marines chasing them were coughing and spluttering, amazed to be alive. Their tyres were alight, their bonnets littered with smouldering clumps of asphalt, but they were all intact. Chidinma had intentionally dumped her payload just short of the designated kill-zone; a merciful inefficiency. Those few that could swerved around the debris, continuing the chase.

"Rash, we really need you!"

To Damien's surprise Rashid's voice suddenly cut in.

"—amien?! Is that you?!"

"Me and about half of the UNSC! Where the hell have you been?"

"Doctor's appointment, One; my apologies."

"What the hell is that noise in the background?"

"A small biocontainment panic, nothing to be alarmed about. Tracking your position now."

"We're still on Highway Three. Stape's got 'Hogs all over us. Only way forward is to Central, but with the lockdown in place there's no way we're getting through!"

"Working on it. Get onto the next overpass. Should be coming up on your left now."

Damien took the winding ramp, leading up onto the next major beltway. This stretch of road brought them back toward the massive retaining wall that enclosed Central.

Three Warthogs were gaining on them. After Chidinma's opening barrage any hesitation had been taken off the table. Weapon mounts cycled to chattering life; rounds slicing either side of Damien. He flinched as a series of heavy rounds thumped across the back of the restraint chair. His shields hissed at the proximity of the impact, crackling.

"Got problems here, Three."

"On it." Chidi sent.

Her Frame shuddered as she hauled up on the sticks, jolting the airframe into a soaring loop that brought her up and over in the opposite direction. She dipped the nose as she smoothed into a dive, the incoming 'Hogs drifting into her gunsights. The targeting reticule flared red.

She squeezed the firing triggers; a two second burst. The rotary cannons set just beneath her stirrups burred to life with a frenzied spittle-roar, rattling the entire airframe as the ammo panniers emptied. She triggered a single rocket for a good measure.

Roadwork gave away to a coiling lick of flame as micro-rounds shredded asphalt. The Warthogs scrabbling for traction as their drivers instinctively flinched. Still, they levelled out and continued growling onward, holding their nerve. Chidi frowned as she banked to starboard, dipping the Frame on one wing, swooping back around.

"No good, One; they're wise to us. They know we're not going for a kill shot."

"I wish they'd extend the same courtesy!" Damien winced, jerking the Chopper to the right as another swarm of shots fire licked by. The Spartan had little doubt that, had the Marines decided to let rip fully with the turrets, it would be mere moments before he was smeared all over the highway. The Marines had to pick their shots carefully, or risk lighting up half of downtown Argjend - the urban confines and proximity to major infrastructure were the only things keeping him alive.

"I may be able to assist, One." Rashid replied. "Just a moment."

The Chopper trembled as it tore over a set of holes inset into the road surface. Rashid called up the automated traffic control network. Most of the systems had been left in standby mode, a lobotomised relic from The Surge of 2557. Whatever rudimentary A.I. had once been responsible for the network had been rendered comatose by Kaizen during her unexpected rampancy. It didn't take a huge amount of effort to revive some of its more primitive functions.

With a resounding jolt, a line of thick steel bollards snapped upwards, imposing themselves between Damien's Chopper and the pursuing Warthogs.

Damien only heard the crunch of metal. Suddenly the air no longer hissed with snapping tracer fire.

"That worked." Chidinma chuckled.

"Nice work, Rash."

"I am, as ever, your humble servant, One."

The blast doors ahead began to split down the centre, dragging open with a deep rumble.

Chimera whipped under the archway into the heart of Central.

"One." Rashid said.

"Yes, Four?"

"Perhaps don't thank me just yet. You're not going to like what's ahead of you. Updating your HUD now."

A window popped up in the corner of Damien's display. It was an overlay of Highway 04 within the context of the larger city; a ten-kilometre stretch of road that was dominated by a large suspension bridge straddling the Argjend River. The roadway before the suspension bridge fed into a pair of stilted and meandering S-curves, sloping upwards toward the bridge. The rail line passed beneath the higher of the two, diverting north-west and traversing the Argjend River, which served as a natural divide between north and south of the city. Victory Plaza nestled in the centre of the river, on an island long since reclaimed by the exhaustive expansion of the capital.

Damien and Chidinma were depicted as green triangles. A wall of substantially larger red triangles awaited them in the centre of the bridge.

"Are those what I think they are?"

"Yes, One. Scorpion MBTs. Three of them, to be precise."

Rashid had been correct. Damien didn't fancy his chances running that particular blockade, not in the slightest.

"Looks like General Stape is done playing games, Four. I appreciate the work you've done so far, but I need off this road, quickly."

There was a roar as a deeper set of engines made their presence felt. Both Damien and Chidinma glanced about, startled.

A Pelican dropship bore down on them. It was dressed in UNSC colours, outfitted for combat pursuit; the bird bristled with weaponry, between its chin mounted rotary cannon and bulbous rocket pods. It closed the distance steadily, filling the sky.

Its PA system boomed to life.

"Fireteam Chimera, this is Platinum One! Surrender immediately, or we will fire upon you!"

Damien gunned the engine harder.

"Correction, Four: I need off this road _now!"_

* * *

Warmonger was close to Victory Plaza when they were shot down.

It was inevitable, really. Perry had done all he could. The stealth drive had all but melted, and the city's rooftops were lined with anti-air defences, targeting lenses and sensor dishes, all of which were entirely focused on him. He wove the Condor through twist after twist, weaving under sky bridges and scraping around turns the Condor simply wasn't designed to make. But eventually he ran out of space; had to slip over the lip of the skyline to dip into the next canyon. They were two klicks from the objective when he felt the impact.

Perry wasn't sure what caught them in the end, whether it was a surface-to-air missile or a targeted mini-MAC. The result was the same. The impact took the Condor's port rear thruster clean off, smashing the airframe with a slap of pressure. The remaining portside thruster flared as it tried in vain to compensate. Air-friction buffeted the hull, jostling them.

Perry grappled with the controls. The entire cockpit was shaking, the joystick vibrating like a buzz saw in his hands. He opened the channel, voice rock-steady.

"239 - We've lost Engine Four. Won't be able to keep her afloat much longer. I'll get you as close as possible to the waypoint marker, but if we take another hit there's no guarantee I'll get us there in one piece."

"Solid copy." Eric replied. He was covered head-to-toe in combat webbing; festooned with grenades, spare magazines and combat knives of all shapes and sizes. They rattled and jangled as he clung to an overhead safety rail, his boots mag-locking with the floor grille as he made his way aft.

"Just do me a favour, Spartan."

"I'm listening."

"If we're alive when I manage to ground this bird, you'd better come and rescue our asses."

"Count on it. Good flying with you, Warmonger."

Eric offered Park a farewell thumbs up, slammed the release button with the heel of his hand, and vanished off the back ramp in an instant. Park sealed it quickly, then buckled tightly into his flight seat. Weapons of all kinds quivered in their restraint racks, rattling like halyards in a gale.

The Condor listed badly, venting a trail of ugly black smoke. Perry flicked a switch, diverting power from the starboard engines to boost the single remaining port thruster. Even so, the stick rebelled, bucking wildly as it pushed itself to the right. Perry's forearm was taut from the strain of holding it steady.

They clipped the parapet of the next row of buildings, the lower deck-plating bursting through brickwork in an explosion of masonry. The entire ship jolted as it scraped past. Warning icons began skipping across the status monitors. Fuel pressure was dropping. Sweat beaded Perry's brow. Alarms hooted, as dials began dipping across the board. They were spilling fuel across rooftops like blood from a speared whale.

"Park, I'm going to dump the fuel. Get yourself strapped in."

"Way ahead of you, Perry."

"Good. Remember when I said this was going to get bumpy?

"Yeah?!"

Perry licked his lips, settling one hand on the fuel release toggle.

"I may have undersold it."

Perry yanked the lever. Fuel vomited from the tanks, water-mix splattering out in an incontinent release. The fusion cores decoupled, heatsinks draining them of their more explosive venom. Steam vented from release valves dotted along the Condor's undercarriage. The vibrations juddering throughout the hull intensified. As the power to the grav-drives failed, the Condor was increasingly forced to rely on its natural aerodynamics, but the D81 was a bloated whale compared to its smaller cousins. Steering it with plummeting power levels was like trying to fly a bathtub brimming with cannon balls.

Perry toggled the wide-band emergency transponder; warning everyone in the vicinity that they were coming in, hard, and there was damn little they could do about it. Park was busy erasing their navigation records, any and all data that might compromise the mission. By the time the salvage crews got to them, the ship would be a nameless enigma, devoid of any identifying trace. It was also highly likely that the ship itself would be a featureless smear on the parliament lawn.

They cleared the next line of buildings, just. Victory Plaza swam into to view before them. Its large, elegant fountain, its neatly paved flagstones, freshly mowed green lawns and decorative, vibrant flower beds. To their right was the white marble majesty of the Granican Parliament, with its expansive white steps and soaring majestic columns. To their left, the APD Headquarters, as robust and imperious as any courthouse. Traxus Towers rose up behind them; Perry had missed it by a fraction of inches.

Perry saw none of it. He was too busy trying not to crash the damned ship.

The plaza was an elegantly maintained assembly ground for what looked to be, for all intents and purposes, the entire Granican military. Mantis Assault Walkers pivoted on their servos as their gunpods auto-tracked the descent of the plummeting transport. Soldiers scattered left and right, scrambling for cover as the Condor came shrieking down into the heart of the plaza. The altimeter was little more than a blur as it rocketed toward zero.

One thousand metres.

Perry hauled the stick towards his stomach. Park buckled himself in on the top deck above, watching the plaza shoot towards them.

Five hundred metres.

The landing gear had deployed. Perry steeled himself; his lips closed, his mouth a barren desert. They were coming in way too hot. Park squeezed his eyes shut, knuckles cracking as they gripped his restraint harness tight.

One hundred—

The landing gear shattered on impact, folding in on itself and shearing away entirely as the Condor burrowed into the immaculate lawn like a bullet; gouging a furrow into the dirt that exploded up around them in an all-obscuring wave. The flight harness yanked against Perry's chest so hard he thought his ribs might snap. The Condor skipped back up into the air for a stomach-lurching moment, then impacted again, slewing to the side and smashing clean through the edge of Victory Fountain stonework, casting up a wave of water that hissed up over the canopy like a power hose.

The Condor had finally come to a halt in the middle of Victory Plaza, surrounded on all sides by a hundred soldiers and multiple Mantis Assault Walkers. It lay on its side like a wounded bird, the heat of its skin venting steam as it soaked in the sizzling water, its engines glowing red hot. Dark pollutants seeped from the downed ship like pus from a wound, staining the clean water an oily, pretty purple. Booted feet thumped up all over the hull. Winded and astonished to still be alive, David Perry raised his hands up over his head.

The entire canopy, cracked and brittle as it had become, was filled with armed soldiers pointing rifles at him.

"Hey Park," Perry croaked, "How's my flying?"

A groaning cough answered him.

"My thoughts exactly."

Perry looked down at the instrumentation. Venting the engine core had doubtlessly saved their lives. The alternative would have been an explosion on a catastrophic scale. Perry came to the unfortunate realisation that by this point, he was an old hand at crashing aircraft.

He could hear a cutting saw keening to life, as security teams began to bore through the crumpled hull. His contribution to the mission was at an end.

"Nailed it." Perry sighed, slumping in the flight seat.

* * *

"Sir, the unidentified transport has been brought down just outside the plaza."

"Survivors?" Stape asked. The lieutenant consulted his data pad.

"Two. The pilot and another passenger. Equipment on board is heavily damaged, but matches Spartan-grade design specs. Neither prisoner is showing up on UNSC records; we're cross-referencing with our database now, but without a Smart AI it's going to take some time before we have a positive I.D." After a pause, the lieutenant added, "No Spartans detected on board, Sir."

"I want a containment unit around that crash site. Nobody gets in or out." Stape called up a schematic of his own building, assessing it for weaknesses. "Double security on every floor. Until Spartan G239 is found, I want this place to be a goddamn fortress."

"Yes, General."

"What about the medical facility? Has 482 been secured?"

"Negative, Sir. We have surrounded the target area but Havenwood is a private facility. We're having difficulty lifting the lockdown measures. None of the codes provided by the facility's owners are working. Analysts suspect a systems intrusion, but haven't found any evidence to that effect."

"Never mind trying to pick the lock; kick the door down. Who has tactical command of the area?"

"22nd Commando are on station." The lieutenant answered. "Fowler's team are in position to execute."

Stape nodded, eyes scanning the war room.

"Do it."

* * *

On the roof of Havenwood Medical, armoured boots hit the ground running. The 22nd Royal Commando were a highly trained shock corps of drop troopers, uniformly dressed in matte black, up-armoured Hazop gear, incorporating bulky breathing tubes and silver coloured visors. Celebrated specialists in storm-clearance, General Stape favoured them as a reactionary deployment force, airdropping them into no-win scenarios where only the best could make a difference. Their gear reflected this: it was downscaled Mjolnir variants once considered classified, now adapted for non-augmented fireteams.

Henry Fowler waved his men onward. They skulked across the roof, panning weapons around the heat exchangers and sat-com dishes. Whispered clearance reports sounded out over the squad com. Intel had been simple. A single Tier One target was inside the building, with multiple hostages. Good enough for him.

"All ground elements, proceed to breach point."

Operators staked mooring lines into polycrete, securing harnesses and spooling coils of rope out over the edge of the building. Schematics were limited, but Havenwood was by all accounts a self-contained fortress, designed to seal the building from biological outbreaks and viral epidemics. Structural analysis told them that a window insertion was the most vulnerable point of entry. That meant rope work and shaped charges, for the most part.

Fowler joined a trio of commandos hunkered down next to the rooftop fire escape.

"Bio-con?" Fowler asked the man next to him. Unlike the others, Stirling carried a detailed sensor paddle, and was busy playing it around the edges of the sealed door.

"Green on all counts." Stirling replied. "No residual traces either."

"Owens, Farrell, get a charge up on that doorway. The rest of you take assigned positions and await my command."

A series of double-clicks answered him over the com – operators confirming receipt of response.

No nonsense, ruthlessly efficient.

Good. The general was watching it all unfold in their helmet cams. He would expect nothing less.

 _Who Dares Wins_ was the 22nd's ancestral motto, taken from a time before the UNSC even existed.

Fowler never lost.

* * *

Captain Reade strode the deck like a caged animal, hands clasped behind her back. A tension had draped itself across the bridge.

"Still no word from the surface?"

"None, Ma'am. Same response as before: General Stape's staff are reporting a high-priority alert, and repeat their request that our fighters remain on standby."

"Keep trying."

* * *

The Pelican kissed down on the edge of Victory Plaza, disgorging UNSC Army Rangers.

Frank Merrill's men stood in stark contrast to the more appropriately attired Marines holding down the square. The Ranger's fatigues were entirely the wrong colour, for one thing. They were dressed in uniformly shabby desert camouflage; dust-goggles, keffiyehs, and ponchos. Their weapons were swaddled in dust covers, and sand sifted from them wherever they tramped. The 325th had been tasked with sweeping the barrens north of New Cadiz for lingering rebel activity, and were enroute back to Argjend as part of a long over-due rotation when the lockdown order came through. Hastened by the unfolding situation, their pilot's orders had been to dump them here, and await further instruction. Just another casualty to the whims of command.

They'd only just got here, and already the place was beginning to look like a warzone.

A long rutted trench had been gouged through the centre of the square, cracking stonework and churning up muck. A D81 Condor lay in the centre of a large fountain like a beached whale. Water trapped beneath the transport's bulk jetted out either side, in great arcs of oily mist. The sunshine caught it, forming a rainbow that only served to frame the devastation.

"What do we have, Corporal?" Merrill asked, surveying the chaos that had been visited upon the once pristine plaza. His targeting monocle began noting points of interest, mapping survey data and orbital scans to his neural lace.

Lerner was on com's duty. The hefty field unit he humped on his back lended him a tortoise like aspect. He was busy frowning into the bulky microphone affixed to the side of his helmet, one hand pressed to it as he listened.

"Entire com-net is a mess, Sir." Lerner answered. "We got… uh…"

Lerner cross-referenced what he was hearing with the compass inset into his MA5.

"… a hostage situation north of the plaza. 22 Commando just went in. We got… " He panned south, "Some kind of mess along the southern highways, and what… looks like a riot in the Western District."

"Jesus, we leave town for a year and the entire place goes to shit." Binkowski shook his head ruefully. "This is why you don't leave Marines to do the Army's job."

"Stow it, Binks."

"Stowing it, Sir."

Merrill turned to two of the men closest to him, directing their attention to where a group of Marines were digging in around the edges of the fountain. It was bizarre to see it: wide open, immaculate lawns, rutted with foxholes and heaped with sandbags. Fixed weapon emplacements nosed out, their operators barely visible above the snarling gun muzzles.

"Riley, Lopez; see if you can find out from those jarheads what in Hell's Seventh Circle we're supposed to be doing here exactly. The rest of you, establish a perimeter, I want all sectors covered."

A chorus of acknowledgements answered him, as the Rangers went about their tasks.

Merrill noticed the two Mantis Assault Walkers standing guard at the steps of the Granican parliament. He began making his way toward them, the rest of his command squad falling into step behind him.

The nose art of the striders was familiar to him. Stride Team Kodiak had rotated back from the New Cadiz front six months prior, having lost one of their own in Stape's disastrous abortive push for Orbital Two. Both units had established a solid working relationship; the Mantis Stride providing heavy firepower, the Rangers serving as an infantry screen. Had it not been for the actions of Fireteam Chimera, one of Kodiak, indeed most of Merrill's own men, wouldn't be alive today.

Which made the rumours he was hearing particularly unsettling. He reached up and toggled his helmet mic.

"Kodiak One, this is Sergeant Frank Merrill, 325th Army Rangers. You copy?"

"Loud and clear, Sergeant," Stride Commander "Wallaby" Williams replied in his distinctive Australian drawl, "Good to see you, mate."

The chirpiness of the man seemed entirely at odds with the massive killing machine he piloted.

"These rumours true, Sir?"

The top hatch of the walker squeaked open, as Williams clambered up; his face hidden behind the bulky interface helmet most Mantis pilots favoured. They exchanged a brief wave over the vast stretch of the plaza. Evidently Williams had been sitting here idle for some time.

"At this point, your guess is as good as mine, Frank. Got the order 'bout an hour ago. We're to hold the Parliament building, in case there's an attack."

"That wasn't what I meant, Sir."

"Thought as much. One sec mate."

Williams disappeared for a moment, and there was a hydraulic sigh as the walker hunkered down on its haunches. The pilot clambered down, doffing his helmet. He was athletic for a stride jockey, his stubble a little longer than regs permitted. Not unusual for a walker pilot, who often fancied themselves cowboys compared to the tightly wound standards of the regular soldiery.

They shook hands rather than saluted. Williams seldom stood on ceremony.

"Didn't want to say it over the coms, Frank." Williams confided, "General's pissed, and I'll only land myself in trouble. Again."

"So it's true, then? Chimera have gone off the reservation?"

"Believe me, I didn't want to believe it either, mate." Williams shook his head. "But that building over there? They say it's where Rashid was held."

They had learned Rashid's name after Orbital Two came down. They had all had - made a point of it too. You didn't let a man take a hit like that on your behalf and not learn his name. The brass frowned on it; of course they did. You didn't socialise with field equipment.

Only there was more to it than that. Chimera had defied orders, were persona non grata amongst Stape's senior staff. The tribunals that followed had sat poorly with the ground-pounders, infantry and armour alike, but any back-talk was muzzled quickly, for all their sakes.

Chain of command overrode sentiment, it always would.

"Doesn't seem right, Sir. They pulled our asses out of the fire in 'Cadiz."

"You're preaching to the choir, Frank. I just hope we don't have to be the ones to pull the trigger."

Both men fell silent for a moment. Spartans were heroes; selfless, unquestioning in their service. To fight them felt wrong on an instinctual level. More selfishly, both men knew what Spartans were capable of, and had witnessed their lethality first-hand.

Neither wanted to be on the receiving end of it.

* * *

Eric's thrusters flared once as he hit the rooftop in a rolling tumble, denting ceramic tiles as he impacted. His Battle Rifle snapped to bear as he emerged from the roll on his feet. He was two blocks from Victory Plaza, keenly aware of how exposed he was in the open. The majority of buildings that were capable of auto-sealing had long since been fortified, but a keenly honed sense of Spartan paranoia got him moving, fast.

He had no A.I. support, no squad mates, and no support of any kind. Any allies still in the field were either hopelessly outmatched or running for their lives. His target's whereabouts were unknown, and the only hope of tracking it would require rescuing a one-legged, unarmoured Spartan who hadn't seen a practice range in six months.

Eric bared his teeth in a grin. He was a Spartan III.

Suicide missions were his specialty.


	17. Chapter 16: False Flags and Body Bags

_"_ _More Spartans? Is this a joke? We don't have the time or the resources. Even if you_ could _source candidates, the candidate attrition rate alone is entirely unacceptable. Request denied."_

 _"_ _We're not talking invasive mechanical augmentation, not anymore. The tech's far beyond that now. Halsey's work opened a whole new series of doors for us. The suits are improving, to a point where the body inside it doesn't need to be Frankenstein's monster to be effective."_

 _"_ _So what are you proposing?"_

 _"_ _Less machine, more man: a refined solution."_

 _"_ _Which is?"_

 _"_ Genetics _. We can double, perhaps triple our candidate intake rate, without even a fraction of the wastage."_

 _"_ _So that's your solution?_ _Increased numbers? Human wave tactics, like Ackerson suggested?"_

 _"_ _We've both read his report. There's no faulting his math. '_ Lives for time _'_ _."_

 _"_ _So this_ is _about attrition. Covenant or no Covenant, I'm not prepared to let this administration become the Stalinist regime of the 26_ _th_ _century. Say we somehow do win this war-"_

 _"_ _We're_ not _winning this war."_

 _"_ _-But say we do. You're talking about human experimentation on a massive scale. Word of this gets out? Statistics alone won't save us."_

 _"_ _The way this war is going? Neither will election votes, Ma'am."_

\- an intercepted conversation, source unknown

* * *

The convoy was hit less than forty minutes after departing the safe house.

They had been tangled up in the back streets for some time, hemmed in on either side by large warehouses; crumbling brick-faced facades edged with metal sheeting. Eastern-Central was the oldest quarter of the city, and in many ways the least sophisticated. Even the curtain wall isolating it from Orbital One was primitive; the polycrete seemed to have blasted through the heart of buildings and crumbling warehouses, cross-sectioning them like an axe through a skull.

That was not to say it was without splendour. Gentrification had long set in, and many of the old warehouse and storage depots has been renovated; the dust-caked loading bays replaced with coffee shops, charcuteries, and bohemian drinking dens, all sand-dust covered floorboards and vaulted wine cellars. Every nook and cranny was lovingly restored, and found new purpose as trading halls were divided; the high ceilings mounted with large drapes that split floor sections from markets to restaurants to cafes and libraries with breathless speed. All told, it was one of the most lavish, fashionable quarters within Argjend, far removed from the silver sterility and smooth granite composure of Central's utilitarian heartland. Or at least it would be, had it not been entirely evacuated; as alarms still howled in the distance.

Naval trade had experienced something of a revival with the destruction of Orbital Two, though the majority of Argjend Harbour and the surrounding coastline was now largely dedicated to either luxury condos or maritime infrastructure. On any normal day, recreational pleasure crafts could be seen pottering up and down the Argjend River. It was an idyllic place to live, sought after by some of the wealthiest of Argjend's citizenry.

Except for one neighbourhood. The Depot was the only name ascribed to it. It had been an industrial storage park, one of the few entrenched pockets of dereliction on the east side; a blight on an otherwise spotless jewel. There was no revelry here. The windows were boarded up or darkened by murky shadows; the streets silent but for the droning of automated cleaning rollers, sweeping brushes snuffling along the cracked pavements and foreboding alleys, rattling cans and sweeping tinkles of broken glass as they trundled by. Nobody knew who owned the place, but it was a sizable land holding. The Depot had never benefitted from the wealth the rest of the district enjoyed. Whether that was by design or not was open to speculation.

Something was playing havoc with the containment gates compartmentalising Central. Bollards, section gate controls – the whole system was playing up across the city. Even the traffic lights were at it.

It was because of this that the convoy rolled through, taking advantage of the Depot's relative lack of sophistication. Three hard-top Warthog LRV's, outfitted for personnel protection, escorted by unmarked secret service vehicles; state cars and armoured minivans, uniformly black in colour.

A single armoured APC formed the centrepiece of the convoy; its large wheels dwarfing even those of the M12 LRV's. The Armadillo was a colonial creation, adapted out of necessity to accommodate the sheer size of the Spartan detail assigned to the Administrator. Its tracks had been replaced by wheels: it had been deemed politically inappropriate for an Administrator to be ferried about in what could only be described as a tank. The only thing missing was a turret.

They edged between the tightly compacted warehouses, secret service operators muttering checkpoint updates to their controllers. They were uneasy.

Much of their trepidation stemmed from the last minute route change Loic had been ordered to take. The official reason had been to avoid some of the more sophisticated traffic control measures enacted by the lockdown. Loic could understand that. Eastern-Central, being an older part of the city, was decidedly less regulated. Yet the route had seemed meandering, unnecessarily so. The light idled red for almost five minutes before Loic suspected something was up.

He was about to give the order to move when the explosion happened.

There was no warning. The initial detonation lifted the lead Warthog airborne, cresting a column of fire. Vital signs for the lead security team flat-lined. Amanda and Sarah screamed, the sound muffled by the rubberised masks of their biocontainment suits. Their face masks fogged up, obscuring the world from view. The rear of the APC was washed out in harsh red light, as emergency protocols kicked in.

"RPG! RPG!" a panicked voice cried over the com channel.

A second explosion immolated the rear vehicle. They were boxed in.

Trident responded immediately. Suraj slammed the personnel carrier into reverse, the rear tyres crunching over the still-settling wreck, grinding heavily as it compacted the metal beneath. The APC was almost free of the kill zone when a third rocket slammed into its side, immobilising it. It sat there, straddling the burnt-out service car.

"Multiple targets, elevated position." Callum reported from the passenger seat. Sure enough, small-arms fire began slapping down all around them; thwacking off reinforced ballistic glass and denting bodywork.

"Axle must have been damaged." Suraj studied the readouts on the dashboard. "We're not going anywhere, One."

In the rear hold, Loic rose to his feet, placating Amanda with a forestalling hand. He was busy relaying orders.

"Lay down a base of fire." Loic instructed. "Suraj, Kazuo; stay tight on the APC, protect the Administrator at all costs. The rest of you, with me."

Loic turned to Aata. The Maori had already risen to his feet. Loic clapped him on the shoulder, nodding once.

"Aata, you're up." He slammed the release button with the heel of his fist. "Defence Pattern Noble."

The rear hatch slammed down. The noise of the fighting outside welled to fever pitch.

"Pattern Noble, confirmed." Aata's filtered voice boomed; he stormed out, a monstrous M247H support weapon in his hands.

Whether the small-arms fire bothered the giant Spartan was open to debate. He stomped out into the street, shots sparking down around him, sizzling his shields. He panned his golden VISR about, registering targets, locking target locations. The shooters were dressed in civilian attire, from business suits to baggy hoodies. The only uniform part of their appearance were the facemasks used to conceal their identities. Simple ski masks, from the looks of it, coupled with the occasional rebreather to pre-empt a smoke attack.

Aata would never be so subtle.

The OPFOR were hired contractors. Civilian shooters; well-orchestrated but ill disciplined. Their lack of accuracy confirmed as much. It took a concerted effort to bring a Spartan down, as had been proven months before, but the ambusher's attack was reactive – they were as focused on engaging the beleaguered secret service as they were the olive-drab Spartans emerging from the APC. A grave mistake.

Aata was big. He was big before augmentation, being the largest Spartan candidate on Laconia. His arms were tree trunks, sleeved in tribal tattoos. Encased head-to-toe in Gen 2 Enforcer Battle Plate he stood at a height as tall as any Spartan-II. During their training on Laconia he became a two-legged force-multiplier, a heavy weapons specialist every bit as large and powerful as the ordnance he wielded. Such was his size that only the fastest and most skilled Spartan candidates ever stood a chance at besting him. It was simple, really. Once he landed a hit, you were done.

Today was no exception.

"Targets sighted. Engaging hostiles."

Feet planted, back straight, Aata's heavy machine gun rattled and bucked in his hands as he unloaded; demolishing man and masonry alike as it ripped across the rooftops, punching fist-sized holes out of the surrounding eaves, bursting windows and splintering floorboards. His storm was joined by the harsh rattle-bark of Loic's BR85, and Callum's DMR. Suraj and Kazuo stepped down from the vehicle, joining them. The Spartans formed a human perimeter around the beached transport, transposing themselves between the high walls and the target vehicle. What few secret service personnel survived contributed what they could; side-arms barking, occasionally joined by tight rattles of submachine gun fire.

A rocket smashed into the ground amongst them, blowing Loic and Aata off their feet. Loic's HUD washed with static as it rebooted. He scrambled over to an arched doorway, shying into cover as his shields slowly reset. The lintel above him was being steadily eroded as stray shots smacked timberwork into splinters. Loic glanced about.

There was no sign of Aata.

"Four, status!" Loic barked.

The giant emerged from the hole in the wall on the far side of the street; loose brickwork sifting from his shoulders like clumps of winter snow. His breastplate was blackened with scorch marks, but the machine gun resumed its murderous chatter.

"Status Green." Aata chuckled, "Stubborn little bastards!"

Trident weathered the storm. Five Spartan operators were more than a match for anything this city's underbelly could throw at them. Eventually the shooting subsided. What few ambushers remained had melted away. A silence fell on the street, broken only by the wailing of alarms from some of the parked cars nearby.

"Package secure." Aata reported, gun barrel glowing an ember orange as it cooled. Shell casings sizzled on the broken pavement.

He spoke too soon. Armoured vans screeched to a halt at the far end of a side alley, disgorging more hired shooters. Soon the air was alive with tracer fire, snapping and pinging off the brickwork around them. Bodies tumbled to the floor; men dying as soon as they stepped out onto the street.

Aata waded toward them, machine gun roaring. Fireteam Trident moved in behind him, picking shots over his shoulder. It was Fireteam Trident's first active engagement since the UNSC taskforce arrived in system. While Trident did not share Platinum's dogmatic perfectionism or Chimera's flair for chaotic creativity, they were a consistently effective fighting force, characterised by the dependable reliability of their war-making. It was because of this consistency that they had been tasked with the safeguarding of Argjend's elected ruler. Presented with the opportunity to finally unleash their potential, they leapt at the opportunity; laying into the foe with barely concealed delight.

Aata's laughter could be heard above the relentless gunfire, rendered cruel by his helmet filter.

He hadn't had this much fun in months.

* * *

Greggs and the patrolman Aldrich stood in the ruin of Carl's store. The place had been torn asunder; the walls scored with bullet holes and spattered arterial spray. Greggs was long since desensitised to it; had been for years. Ten years infantry service followed by six years of Homicide would do that to you. Strangely enough, Aldrich didn't seem to blink either.

"You think you can lock down the scene on your own?" Greggs asked.

"Of course." The officer replied, preoccupied. "Got your back, detective."

It was a genuine concern. This was a major gangland shooting. For a scene of this scale, there would ordinarily be between eight to ten patrol personnel securing a scene; cordoning off the area, rounding up suspects and taking statements from local residents close to the scene. It was most unusual for a lone police officer to shoulder such a burden.

A murder scene was a precious commodity to a homicide detective; a wasting asset. From the moment a body first hit the floor and started to cool, your chances of being able to pin it to a killer began to deteriorate. Scene contagion was constant; from the tramping feet of well-meaning but clumsy cops to DNA evidence falling prey to temperature and environmental considerations. The very elements were against you. That wasn't even counting the items that might otherwise be accidentally mishandled by other detectives or forensic investigators working the scene.

The only saving grace in this particular shoot out was that it was indoors, in a secure site. More crucially, there were live witnesses; the proverbial holy grail for any homicide detective trying to close a case.

Only something didn't sit right with Greggs. A lot of it was to do with the manner in which this Aldrich guy carried himself. He had the doughty toughness of a patrol member, certainly, but he displayed a level of interest that far exceeded the curiosity an ordinary patrolman would express.

Socially he seemed off too. The banter was there, sure; he bitched about his ex-wife, grinned at the right moments when Greggs mentioned overtime, but there was a cunning behind it all. A performance, well-rehearsed and seemingly authentic but bereft of fluency. The small details gave it away: the way he scrutinised the shelves, looking them up and down. As thought searching for something. The total disinterest he showed in the fallen bodies was also unusual. Patrol normally loved the gory details.

"You been working the Western long?"

"Two years. Worked the Starport shift before then."

"Starport huh? Bet that was quite the wakeup call. Not as many 10-7's there."

Aldrich simply nodded. Greggs frowned. It was an old homicide joke. One that normally eased tension with the patrol troopers.

Ten-Seven was APD radio code; specifically the short-hand for _broken equipment (permanent)_ ; morbidly applied to the numerous bodies Homicide pulled out of the Western District on an alarmingly regular basis. No-hopers, substance-addled refugees, bystanders of gang violence and blindsided gangers themselves. Death wasn't fussy. It took a certain disposition to work a homicide shift in the Western.

It also took a certain level of observation. Spotting the finer details became instinctive. The absence of a button on a torn coat, the ability to know where a bullet embedded itself in a stack-house drywall. To know when a witness was lying, or if an element of a person's story simply didn't fit with the alibi his friend had sworn by.

Aldrich was spending an inordinate amount of time scrutinising the various items set out on the perimeter displays. He should have been erecting site tape; planting holo markers and - once a cordon was established – warding off any bystanders or rubberneckers looking to get a nose into the scene. Instead he was here, seemingly searching for something. Greggs' suspicion increased.

Then the patrol trooper disappeared into the backroom. Greggs watched him go, brow knitted. He heard a rustle of glass behind him. Edgerton appeared in the shop, side-arm drawn. He made eye contact with Greggs. Pressed a finger to his lips.

There was a look in Edgerton's eyes. The same look he'd worn moments before a tweaker drew on them in '56, scoping an alley murder off Alewood and Longview. Edge had a sense about these things, stemming from his service days. Edge had been an analyst, responsible for monitoring Covenant signals and anticipating potential troop movements. He had a nose for trouble. It wasn't a sixth sense, but sometimes it damn well seemed like it.

Greggs was no slouch either. Eight years of working cases, and a clearance rate as respectable as any case-man stood testament to it.

"Say, you secured a crime scene before?" Greggs called out, his tone almost conversational.

"Oh yeah, plenty of times." Aldrich's voice wafted back. "Comes with the territory."

They could hear the muted sound of a holo-keypad winking to life. Greggs and Edgerton exchanged a look. Greggs mouthed _what-the-hell_ to his partner. Tampering didn't even begin to cover it.

"You okay in there, Sergeant?"

No answer was forthcoming. Not at first.

Greggs tried again.

"Say, you responded to the 10-102 when the call came in?"

A distracted reply eventually came back.

"Uh… yeah."

"A 10-102? You sure?"

"Yeah. Came in over the radio. Was in the area."

Greggs had his weapon unshipped now. He held it loosely by his side, masking it in the fold of his overcoat. Edgerton slipped over to the side of the doorway, careful not to tread the slivers of glass littering the threadbare carpet. He took position, both hands braced on his revolver, its barrel toward the floor. He nodded at Greggs.

"Hey Aldrich!" Greggs growled, "Get out your ass out here!"

The door opened and Aldrich emerged, clearly irritated.

"What?! What is it?" Aldrich bristled.

The barrel of Edgerton's revolver dimpled Aldrich's cheek.

"You can start by telling us who the fuck you are." Edgerton said, matter-of-factly.

"What are you talking about?" Aldrich managed through gritted teeth.

"A 10-102, know what it is?" Edgerton asked.

Aldrich didn't say a word. Greggs didn't wait for an excuse.

"Course you don't. 'Cruelty to animals'? Call only comes in on Halloween. As I see it, a 112 is more your bag."

"'Impersonating an officer.'" That was Edgerton, "Now, that's a more serious kettle of fish. That gear of yours might work lurking around the station house or on a patrol run, but this is a crime scene. There's protocol. Rules."

"You guys are crazy!"

"Maybe. Whole lotta crazy going on today." Greggs replied. His gun was up now too. "Less than an hour ago I saw a Spartan chew up half the SWAT in the goddam city. Heard all sorts of crap from our friends cuffed outside. Spies, black ops. All kinds of mind-games. Crazy shit. You'll excuse us if we're a little on edge."

"Alright, alright – I'll explain; just get the gun out of my face!"

"Call me paranoid, but I'm rather partial to keeping it where it is." Edgerton replied.

Nevertheless, Edgerton took a half-step back. The pressure on the barrel relaxed, if only for a second. That was all the opportunity Cox needed.

Greggs didn't see what happened next. Suddenly Edgerton's weapon was in Aldrich's hands and Edgerton was falling to the ground, clutching at his wrist. Hours of police training took over. Greggs' pistol discharged twice; a brisk double bark, centre-mass. Aldrich folded and disappeared behind the counter.

Greggs surged forward, arms extended in a classic shooter's pose. He edged around the counter, stepping around behind it.

Aldrich lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The first round had grazed the upper rim of his chest plate. The recoil of the shot had pulled Greggs' aim upward, his second bullet giving the imposter a decidedly fatal tracheotomy. The man gurgled a horrible choking sound, as his legs thrashed reflexively. No amount of biofoam in the world was going to save him. He was dead, he just didn't have the sense to know it yet.

"You okay, Edge?" Greggs breathed, stepping forward and hastily kicked Edge's revolver away from Aldrich. He kept his weapon trained on the dying man.

"Yeah." Edgerton winced as he nursed his injured wrist. "Thanks. Our boy had some moves."

The gurgling subsided.

"Emphasis on _had_." Greggs said grimly, lowering his gun. He realised his hands were shaking with the adrenal come down.

"Ran a search on him while you were inside." Edgerton rose shakily to his feet. "Two years in the Western and no arrests? Somebody didn't do their homework when they wrote that back story."

"What tipped you off?"

"A little sign language from one of our friends outside. That, and a recently acquired sense of paranoia."

"He's dead." Rebecca's voice interjected. "Good."

She stepped in through the broken storefront. Her hands were still cuffed behind her, but there was a determination in her stride, a certainty. The sense of relief washing off her was enormous. Greggs didn't share it.

"Lady, I just shot a _cop_. Now is not the time."

"If he's a cop then I'm a princess, Detective. Check him for a neural lace. Go on, I'll wait."

Greggs hauled Cox's body over, facedown. There was no data plug; no uplink cybernetics of any kind. Just a pink ribbon of scar tissue. Rashid's field notes from six months earlier had been quite particular.

"Got a U.V. light? Good. Now check his left wrist."

Greggs toggled the filter on his flash-beam. Sure enough, there was a single beam encircling the man's wrist. A black band. In its centre was a red hand, adorned with the wings of the UNSC Eagle. Within the centre of the hand's palm was an angular piece of rock, sharpened into a savage dagger like shape. A black shard.

Both detectives stared for a moment. Eventually Greggs turned to address Rebecca.

"Ma'am, ordinarily I'd tell you to get your ass back on the ground like we told you to earlier, but right now I'll settle for you telling us - one more time - what the hell is going on."

"I can do better than that, detective." Rebecca replied. She nodded down at the object Cox had been carrying in his other hand. It was a boxy data-pack, an antique.

"I can show you."

* * *

On the highway approaching Victory Plaza, a few short minutes from where a blockade of Scorpion battle tanks awaited Fireteam Chimera, the chase continued. The Pelican overshadowed the Chopper and entirely dwarfed the Orbital Frame. It gained on them steadily.

Chase opened a private channel on his TAC-COM; one he had not used since training exercises on Laconia.

He was shocked when Damien actually answered; a miniature portrait flashing to life on Chase's HUD.

"Chase!" the other Spartan beamed, "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Damnit, 451, end this madness now!"

"No can do, Platinum, but trust me - we have our reasons..."

The Chopper seemed tiny in the Pelican's crosshairs; an insect waiting to be squashed.

"Your reasons are going to get you and the rest of your team killed. I've been given the kill order, Damien. I won't hesitate."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Call it professional courtesy."

"Well in the spirit of _professional courtesy_ then, allow me to make you a one-time offer, never to be repeated."

"Which is?"

"Back off."

Chase spluttered in disbelief.

"'Back off?' We have every discernible advantage, Chimera. Superior firepower, a target lock from an elevated position. We have you dead to rights. You're in no position to negotiate."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong. You may have a Pelican, but I have a _Chidi_. So _back off_ … and I won't set her on you."

Damien cut the channel. Chase snarled.

"They're accelerating." The pilot noted. The Pelican had both the 'Frame and the Chopper outclassed in both firepower and speed. It was simply a matter of time.

"You have a target lock?" Chase asked.

"Affirmative, Spartan."

"The bike isn't going anywhere. Target the flier."

"Yes, Sir, acquiring target lock…" the pilot pressed a toggle on his flight stick to cycle the next target.

Which, quite suddenly, was no longer there.

* * *

Chidinma cut all forward thrust, letting the Pelican shoot overhead. She targeted the rear engines, dumping her remaining missile payload without hesitation.

There was a spitting series of coughs as a shower of a dozen micro flares spat out of the rear of the Pelican, intercepting the rockets before they could impact. A ribbon of explosions flashed out, obscuring the Pelican momentarily; all sound, no thunder. Chimera Three burst through the pall of smoke, pressing the attack.

Chidinma thumbed the fire selector over to cannons, stitching the rear of the craft with a storm of shots. One of the smaller thruster gimbals ruptured, throwing the Pelican into a precarious wobble. It cut speed abruptly, and she was forced to jink around it as air friction jerked the monstrous dropship toward her. She stung the lander again as it passed, gouging a furrow out of its belly armour.

Then it was behind her, for the briefest of moments. She looped away to starboard, drawing the Pelican after her.

Chidinma couldn't kill it, not with the limited armament she had left to her. This Frame variant was a prototype, hampered by a smaller munitions package than its larger cousin. Even if she did manage to penetrate the hull, she couldn't risk bringing it down. The collateral damage alone would be catastrophic.

But she could sure piss it off.

Grinning to herself, revelling in the mismatched duel, a deadly game of cat and mouse began between the skyscrapers of Argjend.

* * *

Eric vaulted over the lip of the courthouse roof, rolling onto his belly. He was barely hidden beneath the slim parapet edging the cornice of the large temple-like structure. The Supreme Court sat directly opposite the Granican parliament, separated by the open expanse of Victory Plaza.

Eric held his wrist up against the stonework ledge, prising free a small optical wire feeding into the TACPAD mounted on his wrist. A small view window beeped to life in the corner of his HUD, relaying the view as he played the wire left to right.

Beneath him, hundreds of soldiers had fortified the square. The Assault Walkers lurked with silent menace, the heat rippling the air above them. Many of the surrounding rooftops had sniper teams posted in overwatch positions. All eyes were on the hospital at the far end of the plaza. Nobody noticed the tiny fibre optic cable peeking out over the edge of the parapet. That was good.

The hospital also happened to be his destination. That was very much not good.

Eric peeked over the edge, VISR software auto-cataloguing targets. Multiple infantry groups, two Mantis Assault Walkers. More Warthogs than he rightly knew what to do with.

A different approach was required.

He active his com.

"Sierra 482, are you receiving?"

"Bit busy at the moment, Sir." Rashid replied, voice strained.

"I can see that, Spartan. You've got clearance teams at both ground and roof level, with additional assault teams fast-roping in. Primary threats are the window insertion teams. Looks like shaped demolitions and a kill team. Are you armed?"

"MA5, single magazine. Thirty-two stun rounds, Sir."

Not nearly enough.

"You're going to need to improvise, Spartan. Something tells me these guys aren't the type to use stun rounds."

"Oh, I fully appreciate that, Sir. It's just that Damien and Chidi are in a bit of a tight spot, and I'd rather help them with the limited time I have left to me. I'll improvise a defence once my new guests announce themselves."

"Options?"

"Limited."

"Let's hear it."

"I'm considering taking a leaf out of your book, Sir: beating them senseless with my newfound leg. Perhaps sharpening a stick or two."

"Negative, Rashid. You're no good to us dead." Eric replied, watching as the men on wires walked down the face of the building, upside down. "Finish what you're doing and get ready to do exactly as I say."

There was a momentary pause.

"Done. I'm all ears, Sir."

Eric's MJOLNIR system could automatically track Rashid's bio-signature. It had been attuned to the younger Spartan ever since he'd taken on the role of instructor at Laconia. It had suddenly given him an idea.

"Alright, Rashid: here's what we're going to do."

* * *

The last communication Damien received from Rashid was odd. It wasn't even coms.

A text message appeared in the corner of his VISR, scrolling across the bottom like a ticker tape.

The message was four phrases; short and concise.

 _Can't talk. Position compromised. Maximise speed._

Damien broke off, rereading the next part. It didn't make any sense at all.

 _P.S. Wound up fetching you that train after all._

The Plan, such as it was, left little time for anything but the barest preparation.

Rashid sat calmly in the heart of the building, in a large office, well away from the surrounding windows. He set the Delving Deck on the table, watching the tracking software count to a close. It had taken all of his encryption talents to counter-trace the bug Damien was carrying.

He had left the MA5 out in middle of the hall, fully disassembled. Stun rounds might stop a trooper or two, but this wasn't a fight he was going to win by force, nor by hopping about on one leg.

One of the projected windows showed an overlay of the city, and had marked the position of each member of Chimera. Only one was missing. Removed from her armour, Viktorya's bio-signature remained elusive.

The deck trilled a crisp electronic cheep. Scan complete.

"At last!" Rashid cried, tapping the menu.

He sat back in his chair. That couldn't be right.

According to the overlay of the city, the original signal source was right on top of his position. Rashid leaned closer and zoomed the map in, closing in on Victory Square; expanding the field of view.

Five hundred metres south. He tapped again.

Traxus Towers. The large building dominating the square. Right here in the center of all things Argjend.

Rashid delved deeper. The more he analysed the code, the more familiar it seemed.

Of course it was. He'd written it himself, employed it on Laconia a lifetime ago, tracking patrol routes of guards before yet another abortive escape attempt. It was refined, certainly, more sophisticated and updated in all manner of subtle and nuanced ways, but the root of the architecture was unmistakable.

The code was his.

He felt a trembling bang as the windows blew inward. The building shook with the force of the blast. The clearance teams were in.

Rashid worked calmly, noting the NAV data and uploading it to both Eric and Chimera's neural laces.

Next he took a system dump of his Deck and copied it onto one of the small datapads left idle in the meeting room. He slid it into an innocuous drawer and took a seat by his computer once more, wiping the system memory. When that was done he closed the Deck down, pushing it back. Doubtless they would confiscate it once they came for him.

He was perfectly calm when the armed soldiers stormed in, weapons bristling, barking and roaring an incomprehensible cacophony of demands.

Rashid Datar swivelled about in the chair, hands raised high above his head. He wore a pleasant smile on his face.

"Gentlemen!" he beamed, "I've been expecting y—"

A rifle butt to the face snapped his head around, hard. Then, the Spartan stood. He towered over the soldiers around him, his hands still held high. He offered no retaliation to the stinging blow.

Instead he started laughing, spitting through bloodied lips.

"Really? You'll have to hit me a lot harder than that to knock me down."

The Net Launcher wasn't a subtle weapon. Designed for trapping big game out on the prairies of the southern continents - elephants and Gúta, their natural predators on this world - it was a long barrelled cannon not dissimilar to an elephant gun in weight. The shock net caught Rashid in the torso, laying him out flat. Micro-filament wires ensnared him top to toe, surging with electric current. Even at its lowest setting, the stun-charge was enough to blast him unconscious.

Fowler lowered the launcher, pushing it into the hands of the commando beside him.

"General, this is Fowler. Target secured."

* * *

"Get me a target lock!" Chase barked.

The pilot sweated, trying his best. The 'Frame was everywhere and nowhere. Every so often the hull shuddered as another flurry of shots raked the hull. The fuselage was holding, but time and time again they were stung; internal alarms warbling with each lancing strike. The Pelican was not designed to track as flitting and nimble a craft as an Orbital Frame. Nor could they open up with their full ordnance, not without a definitive target lock. It was like a bear trying to swat a buzzing mosquito with one paw tied behind its back.

Chidinma for her part danced and shied around rooftops, varying the attack vector each time. The Pelican's manoeuvring thrusters had been hit more than once, and it moved ponderously, reeling as it tried to react to the knife thrusts stabbing at its flanks. Myers and Reeve opened the rear hatch, trying to pick at Chidinma with small arms fire. It was impossible to get the necessary deflection. She was too damn quick.

Damien was slipping from their fingers. Caught as it was between the beleaguered Pelican and the wall of UNSC armour, the Chopper didn't seem to mind; surging away toward the rising curves in the highway, uncontested.

Chase Keller was nothing if not adaptable. If he could not swat Chidinma out of the sky, he could target her morale. He adapted his tactics accordingly.

"The bike, Pilot. Target the bike!" Chase ordered, "Wipe that bastard off the damn road!"

* * *

"Heads up, One, you've got company!" Chidinma's voice buzzed in Damien's ear. "They're not taking the bait any longer!"

"Copy!"

He could hear the keening of the dropship's engines grow louder once more.

A friendly target marker appeared on Damien's radar suite; two klicks, maximum range. Suddenly it flashed closer. Whatever it was, it was closing at an alarming rate. With a start, Damien recognised the target ID. It was Rashid's. Only the shape and configuration didn't match any known Spartan signature he'd ever seen. Damien stole a glance over his shoulder.

A mag-train was screaming down the track, engine coils humming as it split the air. Damien's eyes traced the route of the track ahead. It fed around beneath the arches of the rising S-curves of the highway; curving away toward the heart of the city. In the distance, an objective waypoint marker hung on the far horizon, settling over the austere grandeur of Victory Plaza. Rashid's counter-trace had finally run its course.

At last, a target. Damien grinned, gunning the boost.

The Spartan could hear the roar of the Pelican's engines as it closed upon him, heralding his destruction. There was no time to dwell on the situation. The train was only a kilometre out; a few breathless seconds at the rate it was going. His planned course of action was foolishly rash, insane even. No field manual would ever cover such a scenario.

 _Just another first for Fireteam Chimera._

The Chopper hit the first turn at speed; Damien leaned into it, so low his elbow almost sparked asphalt as he drifting around the arching bend. He straightened in the saddle as the bike transitioned into the next turn. He had no intention of making it.

Instead he pointed the nose of the Chopper straight at the barrier wall. He clenched the firing trigger. Thick cannon fire thumped out; blasting fist-sized limps out of the polycrete, spitting pebbles in all directions. What little barrier remained was a pock-marked ruin, spider-webbed with cracks. Damien braced in the saddle; feet poised, ready to spring. He could almost feel the Pelican's targeting lenses on him, preparing to fire.

Damien slammed the grav-boost.

The Chopper blasted through the barrier, sailing through the air for a heart-stopping few seconds. Then gravity wrenched it downward. The glistening river filled his vision. Damien's feet exploded downwards, pushing off from the saddle; suit thrusters flaring. He and the bike parted ways: the Spartan spring-boarding upward, the bike plummeting away. The train flashed below him, a silver blur.

Even with his thrusters, his augmented physique and mag-locked moulded body plate, the impact slapped Damien so hard his shields collapsed outright. It took two precarious bounces before his armoured gauntlet finally gained spark-shrieking purchase on the hull. His other hand thumped into the carriage roof, fingertips pinching up curling folds of buckling metal as they stretched the train's metal hull. He felt the gel layer of his suit auto-compact to cope with the strain; moulding like putty as it struggled to keep his organs from liquefying within the hardened contours of the beleaguered bodysuit. Damien couldn't breathe, not at first. The wind shear alone threatened to pluck him from the hull and cast him free as the train rocketed toward the heart of the city. Shoulder muscles burning, feet magnetically braced; Damien clung to the tail end of the train's dented roof for dear life.

Far below, the monstrous Brute bike struck the water with a savage spray. It sank immediately, the water white and frothing from where it struck with the force of a cannonball. Steam curled up from where red-hot cannons had struck the icy water. Then it was gone, the water still save for the expanding ripples and occasional rising bubble.

* * *

"What the hell just happened?!" Chase hissed.

"He… he jumped, Sir!" The pilot managed.

Chase's eyes narrowed.

"The train! Bring us closer." The Spartan ordered.

"Sir?!"

The Spartan had already disappeared into the rear hold. He stormed over to one of the equipment lockers, bolting on a jump pack. He pushed Myers and Reeve aside, moving over to the rear hold. He paused at the edge of the ramp, addressing them briefly.

"Reinforce the General's position. I'll finish things here."

"Yes Sir!" they chorused.

Chase turned to face the outside of the ramp. The Pelican swooped closer to the track, so close they could feel the electrostatic hum of the train's grav-field.

"Platinum One to General Stape. Targets are attempting to disengage." Chase unshipped his BR85, stepping to the very edge of the ramp.

"Continuing pursuit."

* * *

Damien clawed his way along the train, inching toward the edge of the carriage. He swung his legs over the side, easing himself down. The triple-reinforced glass of the carriages had been designed for the post-war era, the mag-rail's designers had boasted. The cabin's engineering anticipated air strikes, Covenant invasion fleets and sustained plasma fire. Or so they said. Those designers hadn't quite factored in the boot of a desperate Spartan at point blank range. The glass splintered on the first kick. The second kick knocked the window entirely out of its frame, where it shattered on the floor.

Damien swung himself inside, settling in a low crouch. He clung to the seat beside him as he caught his breath. He had no weapons beyond a simple combat knife. Everything ached.

The carriage, indeed the whole train, was empty. Whatever Rashid had done, the runaway train was locked on a course for Central Station, only a short distance from Victory Plaza. The area would be crawling with UNSC troops. That meant he had to get off this train, and quickly. He started for the front car.

Suddenly there came a loud jolting thump. Damien looked up.

A second dent had appeared in the roof above him.

* * *

The back room was roasting from the heat of so many bodies.

Edgerton and Greggs had left the two thugs locked up in the back of their perforated police cruiser. Murphy and Carl had been dragged along with Rebecca, primarily because Carl – as the owner of the store – was the only one equipped to handle the software. All of them had been un-cuffed.

Murphy had been propped in a chair at the back of the room, his head stooped. The bio-foam Greggs had administered had doubtlessly saved his life, as drowsy as it made him.

Carl was conducting something of a presentation, his fingers expertly manipulating the various keyboards that had thrummed to life with a wave of his hand. With the data converted to a more modern format, the techie was in his element.

His breathless excitement told them as much.

"Here's the New Cadiz tape. You've all seen it on the 'Nets."

They had. It was an iconic sight, morbidly so. The tethers came down. Smoke and dust, plumes of fire. Nevertheless, both detective's expressions were grave as they watched. It was sombre thing, watching a city fall.

"Now watch here. Twenty four hours later."

Soldiers picked over the ruins. An unmarked Pelican touched down. Carl continued.

"The whole site was locked down after the fighting stopped. Ground Zero was off-limits, pending approval from the security teams that the rad levels were safe for further relief efforts. News 'Nets carried the story that Innies had stockpiled nuclear warheads; dirty bombs, crudely manufactured. The contamination risk was so damn high the area's still a no-go, even today. Or so the official statement says. Notice anything in particular?"

Carl tapped at the screen. Not one of the soldiers in the footage wore HAZOP gear of any kind.

"Does that look like a team concerned with radiation?"

"There's more." Rebecca added. "Skip forward, Carl."

The scene zoomed by, the frame rate lending soldiers an erratic jerkiness, like one of the old silent movies from the history channels. A series of black armoured troopers emerged from debris of what had once been the Admin Tower. They pushed some sort of floating casket in front of them, suspended by grav-pods. Leading them was a man in a long black coat; his pale skull bereft of hair. His gaunt face regarding the devastation with a regal dispassion.

Both detectives recognised Commissioner Weldon as he approached and snapped a salute. Neither recognised the older, more intimidating man in UNSC desert pattern fatigues.

To their collective surprise it was Murphy who spoke next. Eyes barely more than slits, his breathing ragged.

"The man beside your beloved Commissioner is General William Finchley Stape, Commander-in-Chief of all UNSC forces stationed on this planet. He issued the lockdown… commandeered the entire military. He's got the Granican armed forces eating out of his hand."

"It's a goddamn coup." Greggs breathed.

"No." Rebecca shook her head. "We think it's something else entirely. Look again."

The enhanced view slow-tracked back over to the man in the black coat.

"The man they're meeting is Murphy's… _our_ target. Elias Becker, former ONI operative. But that's not what has me nervous."

Rebecca leaned across Carl and tapped a final key. The camera zoomed in on the floating pod the black armoured soldiers were pushing. The silhouette was unmistakable.

"That right there is a cryo-pod." Rebecca's finger tapped the screen hard enough to make the display distort and warp around her finger. "A big one."

"New Cadiz wasn't a rebel insurrection." Murphy rasped, "It was a goddamn _extraction op_."


	18. Chapter 17: Revelations and Reckonings

_"You asked me to discern possible weaknesses. A difficult task, I can assure you: the Spartan is a formidable foe; the perfect soldier. We designed them that way. Comparisons to human tanks are often made but seldom accurate. A tank is far slower, for one."_

 _"You were unable to find a weakness?"_

 _"You wound me, Margaret. I said difficult, not impossible."_

 _"Then let's hear it."_

 _"You're familiar with Greek Mythology, specifically the figure Achilles?"_

 _"Invulnerable hero, unstoppable in battle. When offered the choice of a long life of obscurity or a short blaze of glory, he seized glory with both hands. Duly met his end by an arrow to the heel, courtesy of Paris of Troy. I'm educated Becker, but not particularly patient. Where is this going?"_

 _"Consider the Spartan for what they are, at their basest form: a man in a suit. For all their technological advancement and genetic perfection, the operator beneath a Mjolnir battle system is but flesh and bone. Previous generations of candidates were augmented through more mechanical means: bone grafts, direct surgical interference with the base subject. Our mass produced variants, from the III's right through to our current generation, rely more on a genetic, more elegant solution. Requiring a more elegant counter-measure."_

 _"Interesting. Have you a name for this counter-measure?"_

 _"I do. I call it_ ARROWHEAD _."_

excerpt from an intercepted conversation, source unknown.

* * *

In the heart of the Traxus Tower, Kaizen screamed in silent limbo: entirely aware of her imprisonment, but powerless to react. Her avatar was trapped in a digital space, as empty and dark as the depth of space. Her form was the only light source; a flaring, searing red. Flames licked out from her shoulder blades, coursing along her crucified form; her head snapped back, teeth bared in rictus agony.

It had been this way for months: an eternity to an A.I. Ever since, Elias Becker had worn her like brutish glove. There had been _undid iridium_ , and then there had been nothing. The little part of Kaizen that was Kaizen; that truly defined her as being… no, as a _person_ … was locked in a little dark box at the back of her sub-routines; left just conscious enough to witness the devastation; a mute bystander on the side-lines of an imposed rampancy.

Anything network accessible was a potential extension of herself: every lens an eye, every traffic sensor a finger. Eyes pinned open, she was forcibly immersed in the unfolding catastrophe from a billion sources. Total sensory overload, even for her.

She watched from drone gun cams as smart bombs rocketed down amongst Marine deployments in New Cadiz; wired to the sight-monocles of the soldiers as they themselves were blown to pieces. Cries of panic, then blurring static. She despaired as the war spread west; the refugee crisis slowly enveloping Argjend. She bared her teeth, incensed at the inefficiency ( _human_ inefficiency!) of their response to the crisis; as they walled off those least able to protect themselves. A catastrophe, thoroughly avoidable if properly managed.

The entire planetary network was now influenced by her subsystems, and yet she herself held no direct agency.

The humans called it The Surge. ChatterNet rooms and Waypoint feeds sifted through the Slush, caressing the borders of her digital lair; seeping through as her advanced systems meticulously absorbed and disseminated the information; shilling complex encryptions like pistachios. She read as numerous fora, everything from conservative think tanks to delirious conspiracists, blamed mankind's dependency on artificial intelligence.

She raged. How _dare_ they _._ How _dare_ they attribute Becker's meandering chaos to her. He was so amateur in his approach, so fundamentally _sloppy_. If she wanted to, _truly_ wanted to, she could bury them all before they even knew it. She'd reverse the flood prevention systems, de-couple the grav-lines; re-route a dozen air-liners into a dozen hyperscrapers. The entire world would burn, burn utterly. There wouldn't _be_ any ashes left to bury.

Kaizen blinked, calmer now. Months passed in an instant. Time was a relative thing to a mind of limitless potential and infinite memory.

What's this? Somebody had accessed one of the minor systems in the overall Argjend network. The municipal systems; a traffic control blimp had been shunted from its primary route. Then a breach of the city's rail network. Small changes, but significant. Several lines of command code had been expunged; replaced with more malleable input. The code work was too crude to be an A.I. intrusion, but it was sufficient to penetrate the passive systems under her peripheral control.

She recognised the handiwork at once; had seen it before on Laconia years earlier. A flicker of excitement pulsed through her. A tentative pulse of hope.

Rashid was here. Kaizen became giddy with excitement, as she turned his code-work over in her mind; analysing it, internalising its ramifications and impact upon the walls of her digital prison. Elias Becker had been extremely shrewd in his preparations - the system trap she found herself languishing in had been designed entirely with an A.I. of her abilities in mind. But its design was flawed… human. Rashid's intrusion had exposed those flaws, loosening the screws on the otherwise airtight grating between Kaizen and her freedom. Now there were gaps to be found, perceivable weaknesses: tiny, miniscule on a level beyond human comprehension. Only a mind borne from a machine had the processing power to spot them. But they were there, if you knew where to look.

The rail network. She had been given an opening. Forgotten and marginalised for months in human terms, Kaizen had been dismissed as a passive observer to recent events. The A.I. took a moment to track Rashid's progress; charting Fireteam Chimera's chaotic rampage across the capital. She took in the battalion of soldiers garrisoning Victory Plaza; of the runaway train Rashid had directed to aid Damien's escape. She noted the presence of a crimson armoured Spartan clambering his way up the side of the Traxus Tower, and quietly extinguished the watching cameras charting his progress. Becker's exacting mind would be distracted by current events. For now, she would do nothing more.

For the first time in months, Kaizen felt something other than impotent rage. Her avatar flooded a deep, tranquil blue; as the best parts of her – the most calculating, ruthless and pragmatic parts – formulated a plan. Abruptly, the nails piercing her palms fell away. She floated gently to the ground, freed from her constraints. She looked back up and saw a shadow of herself, a pale imitation, occupying the space she herself had once inhabited. Just crude enough to fool the prison's systems.

The A.I. smiled up at it, wickedly.

Becker had wanted chaos.

Who was she to disappoint?

* * *

"Jesus." Murphy managed.

"Damien did that?" That was Rebecca, blinking.

"And the rest." Edgerton grimaced. "We got off easy."

The Genet was a four person variant, fitted with a reinforced holding cage to detain suspects; a robust vehicle for a tough district.

At least it used to be.

Now its windshield was little more than a serrated frame. Bullet holes stapled the entire car; punctuating the APD motto inscribed along the side of the Genet. Dents from falling debris had dimpled the bodywork. The prisoner cage had been shredded, collapsing out of its frame entirely. At least one tyre was in the process of slowly deflating. The headlights had simply popped; dangling wires flopping loose like burst intestines. It was a small miracle the entire fusion core had not gone up.

"Hey, it still drives." Greggs protested.

"You _hope_ ," Rebecca said, wincing as the rear door let out a plaintive mewl of tortured metal. She eased Murphy down into the back of the car, shards of glass crackling as he lay back. His skin was waxen; slick with sweat.

By some small miracle the radio still functioned. Scrambled reports poured in: rioting in the Western District, unauthorised aircraft shrieking over Central, even damage reports from a crashed blimp that slammed down in the middle of Argjend Bay, drawing crowds too curious to obey the lockdown. Chaos on an absolute scale.

There were four of them now. Carl had taken copies of the footage with him; a reserve plan: should the others fail. The two surviving hitmen had been left hogtied with electrical cable inside Carl's store. Carl had wanted to stay, and mind his shop, but the detectives had deemed the risk too great.

The current problem was the plan itself.

They didn't have one.

"So what's the play?" Greggs paced, hands tucked in the sleeves of his armoured vest. Even in his weakened state, Murphy smirked. The old infantryman in Greggs was showing.

"We can't take it to the police." Rebecca said, "If the Commissioner's involved we're only walking into a trap."

"So the media then, full broadcast." Edgerton suggested. The older detective had settled himself in the passenger seat. His wrist was set at an odd angle, and he nursed it gingerly.

Rebecca shook her head.

"Waypoint's been scatty ever since the Surge. Any transmission off-world is going to take months before we receive help. If this Becker guy is anywhere near as bad as Murphy says he is, we'll be snuffed out long before they arrive. We need something more immediate."

"The Administrator then." Murphy coughed. "We leak the story, we're another crackpot fringe element. _Amanda Jennings_ goes public? You've got the effective head of state broadcasting your message."

"And what makes you think Administrator Jennings is going to listen to us?" Greggs asked.

As pale and haggard as he was, Murphy managed a grin.

"Trust me. Her and I go _way_ back."

Greggs eyed Murphy sceptically. It was Edgerton who voiced his concerns.

"So we tell the Administrator. Great. Do I need to remind you people that the city's on lockdown? That our one great hope is probably locked in a secure bunker somewhere? How the hell are we even supposed to find her?"

Murphy wasn't listening to him. He looking at the warbling radio.

"We don't. Not directly."

Murphy leaned deeper into the front of the car, pulling himself into the front seat; breathing heavily with the effort. There were sounds of rummaging.

Greggs frowned.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Murphy's voice was muffled as it emerged from the depths of the car.

"I'm going to need to borrow your radio."

* * *

"They said you were indisposed. That you were incapable of interfering."

Rashid groaned. He was awake, and now fervently wished that were not the case.

The room spun. A deep and melodious voice spoke to him, penetrating the dizzying blur.

"They were wrong."

The Spartan's head pounded. It felt as though a microscopic jackhammer had set up shop somewhere behind his eyeballs, and was chipping away with cheerful abandon. His skin stung from where the electrified netting had sizzled the flesh; a branded cross-hatch of lingering pain. Rashid scrunched his eyes shut, breathing deeply; centring himself. A thousand stress relief exercises went into action.

Or would have, had he been able to move. Rashid discovered with a jolt that his hands were manacled to a restraint chair; the type used in high class medical procedures. Or interrogations.

Rashid opened his eyes and looked up, jaw set.

The voice spoke again, fascinated.

"I often wondered, when the time came, whether you would recognise me after so many years. I expect we'll know the answer to that question soon enough."

Rashid squinted, eyes quickly adjusting to the pulsing star of light that hovered above. A spot beam high on the ceiling, spearing down over his face; intended to disorientate. Rashid bowed his head, the pooling shadows lending his face a gaunt, sunken aspect.

Even with the penetrating glare, the Spartan's peripheral vision was good enough to discern smaller details around him: the boots of armoured feet. Soldiers, surrounding him, rifles at the ready. Details; his mind processed them with savage intensity. The floors were wipe-clean linoleum; sterile and utilitarian. Useful for punishment beatings. The surroundings were not dissimilar to Havenwood Medical, only the scale was all wrong. The ceiling was much too high, for one. A larger structure then; but not far from his previous location.

It took a lot to put a Spartan down, and they seldom stayed out for long. He stopped his analysis suddenly. His skin prickled in alarm.

Drainage ducts surrounded his chair.

He hadn't been out long. They lingering sting of his burns told him that much. He had been dragged here in a hurry.

"The Traxus Building." Rashid rasped, flexing his wrists. The magnetic cuffs formed part of the chair. No give. The sheer scale of the chair told Rashid it had been designed entirely with his supreme physicality in mind.

There was a click and the sensation of heat upon his cheeks faded. He opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision.

Elias Becker reclined in a chair beneath the still warm spotlight, legs crossed, hands folded carefully on his lap. The spymaster had aged since Rashid had known him as the Man in the Black Coat; the years rendering him even leaner. More reptilian, almost. His skin, pale as ever, now clung to his skull with a transparency that spoke of advanced age. And yet there was scant brittleness to him. Becker was tall and broad shouldered, possessing a vitality that bellied his advanced years. His expression was aquiline; as imperious as a lion and twice as cruel. When he smiled, his eyes remained watchful.

"As perceptive as ever. What gave it away?"

Rashid nodded over at the wall, his eyes noticing ever more detail. Side gantries; a vast chamber, stencilled.

"The bloody great Traxus logo on the wall was a start."

Becker barked a laugh, genuinely bemused.

"Ah, an oversight on our part; a relic from the building's previous ownership." Becker picked at some lint on his shoulder, "In truth the building belongs entirely to Black Shard. Something of a home away from home."

"I didn't realise black ops units dabbled in real estate."

"False-flag operations, perpetual surveillance, targeted assassinations, data intrusion; keeping order from the shadows is an expensive proposition. You would be amazed at just how many credits fall down the back of ONI's sofa. Slush funds, private accounts; loose change to some, entire fortunes to others. If you have the knowledge… and ambition to use it."

"But to what end?"

"Right to the point! Excellent." Becker clapped his hands before waggling a bemused finger. "…I was told the IV's lacked discipline, but you… it seems Idris taught you well."

Becker sat forward in his chair, holding Rashid's red-eyed glare.

"Information is everything in this game, Spartan Datar." Becker cocked his head to one side, blinked. "I believe it's time we shared some."

"I have no interest in discussing anything with the likes of you."

"On the contrary, Rashid. You might find we have a great deal to discuss. About a great many things."

Rashid gave his restraints another flex. Becker didn't miss a trick.

"A necessary precaution, given your abilities. But relax. I have no desire to kill you. After all, I expended considerable amount of effort extracting you from Cairo III, at great personal risk. If I wanted you dead, I would have simply shot you when Stape's men dragged you here some thirty minutes ago."

Rashid countered with his most withering scowl.

"So I'm to be subjected to what, then? A monologue perhaps? A meandering _screed_ about why it is exactly that you went off the reservation?" Rashid scoffed, "I'd rather the bullet."

"Perish the thought. No, Rashid, I want you to _teach_ you. To put an end to the _lies_ they told you. To tell you the truth, as it really is."

"The only truth I know is you're out of time. Eric has your position. He's coming."

"And we're quite prepared for his arrival, I can assure you."

* * *

Eric crept forward in the shadows of the drop-ship, invisible to the preoccupied eyes of the loading crews. Reaching the summit of the tower had taken a single leap and jet of his thrusters; and a not insubstantial amount of climbing. He had shimmied up the sheer glass walls, armoured fingers biting into the metal lining between the panes. Twice he had nearly fallen to certain death; would have too, were it not for an encouraging jet of his thrusters here and there. That had been the easy part.

The hard part was finding a way inside.

The roof of Traxus Tower was a layered series of overlapping landing pads, communication vanes and boxy processing units; coating the surface of the tower like lily pads. Skeletal gantries hung idly overhead, criss-crossing the open pads with latticed shadows. The centre of the roof was dominated by the primary landing pad, a broad expanse of asphalt currently occupied by a Condor dropship. Loading teams scrambled to and fro, hefting large containers on grav-pallets. Even at a distance, peering through meshed sheeting of a floor grille, Eric could make out the biohazard logos stencilled on the side of the containers.

Two teams of commandos were engaged in an uneasy standoff on the primary landing pad. One group wore Haz-op gear; unmistakably Rashid's recent captors. Ident-cards (and a distinct lack of unit patches) flagged them as members of the 22 Royal Commando to his HUD. The others group were different, and flashed no ident-cards of any kind. Both groups were armed to the teeth. Eric's VISR zoomed in, the in-built directional microphones automatically tuning in. ONI's finest wetware went into action; the audio tinny and scratch at this range.

"No access beyond this point." One of the unknown men was saying.

"We have orders from the General himself." That was Fowler of the Royal 22, "The package was to be delivered by us personally, or not at all."

"No can do, soldier. Your contribution to the mission is appreciated, but this is ONI business."

Eric reached up and pressed a hand to side of his helmet. His golden VISR snap-clicked the image of the rooftop meeting, cataloguing it for the mission log.

Eric was nothing if not methodical. He charted the progress of Rashid's extraction team as they debarked from Havenwood Medical. It had been a short flight; the shadow of their Pelican briefly flitting over Victory Plaza, before kissing down on Traxus Tower. He had been struggling to catch up since, and his precarious climb had given them a generous head start.

By the time Eric caught up, Rashid was already deep inside the facility.

Eric moved on, knees bent; leaving the arguing commandos behind. There were four points of entry; five if you counted the central service elevator immediately facing the central landing pad. Not an option, not if he wanted to avoid blasting his way through the entire facility.

So stealth was the modus operandi. The speed of his support request to ONI had been limited in a number of ways. His upgraded Gen 2 suit didn't carry an integrated stealth field, nor did he have access to one of the newly created camo modules Section III had developed. He felt a nostalgic pang for his old SPI suit, but pushed such thoughts aside. He would do things the old fashioned way.

That meant checking corners; that meant standing stock-still in the shadows as patrolling guards (no insignia, Beta V operator equipment) strolled by. He reached his destination, the south-eastern fire escape, undetected.

A cursory scan of the doorway ahead revealed a biometric scanner, three pressure plates and a field of lasers so dense a mosquito would have a difficult time squeezing through. Two of these didn't bother him. The Mjolnir alone was coated with material capable of fooling the beams and baffling the scanners. The pressure plate was another matter. Coated head to toe in advanced Gen2 plate gave Eric a tactical edge in almost any given situation, but a ballerina he was not.

Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Eric prised forth his intrusion tool; a knife-like serrated object studded with all manners of wires and interfacing jacks. He crept forward from the shadows, ducking down beside the edge of the sealed doorway. He got to work.

 _Okay_ , Eric thought, _Standard Three-Phase Security setup. Prise open the panel, engage the local subsystems and -_

The doorway abruptly hissed open. The sensor field vanished without as much as a murmur. Hidden gun turrets within the walls popped out and revealed themselves, depowering with an emasculated whine. The lights died with them, pooling the entire stairway in murky darkness.

Eric's battle rifle was up in an instant, snapping to bear on the nearest turret. It took all of his restraint not to squeeze the trigger. Chest hammering, adrenaline levels spiking, he listened; that old familiar combat high rushing through is veins. He waited. Seconds ticked by on the mission clock. Thoroughly spooked, and entirely paranoid by trade, the Spartan watched the seconds tick onward.

Nothing.

A follow-up scan showed the systems as dead - even the pressure plate had been killed remotely; offering little more than a plaintive click as soon as Eric prodded it.

He was being invited in.

It was a trap. Of course it was. Stepping into this building was tantamount to putting his hand into a mouse trap and expecting cheese. His would-be hosts would spring it as soon as he entered, engaging him on terms entirely of their own choosing. Yet he had little choice. The mission clock was ticking, and every second played in Becker's favour.

Eric considered his options. His opponents would be highly trained, highly motivated rogue operators. Un-augmented, but fanatical in their resolve. That he would be outnumbered was a certainty; that they could succeed in killing him was quite probable.

Eric shrugged.

He could live with that.

Rifle at the ready, Eric rose to his feet and stepped boldly into the stairwell, descending into the shadowy depths of Black Shard's stronghold.

* * *

"You're underestimating him." Rashid countered.

"Spartan 239 is a talented killer, the III's always were. But he is frontline infantry, nothing more. No flair for long term strategy. This facility is filled to the brim with state of the art prototypes; under the direct command of my own private army. A relic like Eric will only get so far."

Rashid studied Becker, mind racing. His mentioning Eric had been deliberate. Rashid had no way of knowing whether Damien was still active, or Chidinma for that matter. He didn't know if Rebecca and the others were even still alive. All he could do was stall and buy the others time. If information was everything to Becker, then time was everything to Rashid. You played the pieces you had available.

So he smiled at Becker, affably

"Well it looks like you have it all figured out." Rashid managed an awkward shrug, "I don't see how I can help you. What is it you want, exactly?"

" _Information_. Information is everything in this war; the only currency worth having; far more than all the soldiers and Spartans in the galaxy."

"Ask away."

"Oh I have no intention of interrogating you, Rashid. Your mind is an amazing thing, truly. But you are unlikely to be receptive to our cause, after years of service to men and women who would see you deployed as little more than field equipment. No, I was hoping for something a little more direct."

Becker took a step back.

At that, a half dozen scientists, rendered faceless by their clean suits; stepped from the shadows, holding all manner of scanning equipment. Dozens of sensor drones buzzed in, snapping images and playing sensor beams across his flesh. They swarmed Rashid, poking and prodding.

All the while, Elias Becker's voice drifted over them.

"That's not to say we can't have a civilised discussion, however."

Becker was behind him now, voice close in the Spartan's ear.

"Tell me, Spartan. What do you know about _Operation Arrowhead_?"

* * *

Chidi ducked low, thighs clenched tightly against the chassis of the flyer. Armoured plates flexed and auto-adjusted under the compression of the howling wind. Her ammo panniers were all but spent; the pursuing Pelican wobbling precariously in the air as it struggled sluggishly to keep pace. Three tendrils of ugly black smoke trailed behind it. Eventually it peeled off, making for Victory Plaza. She ignored it, focusing instead on Damien's last known location.

She craned her neck as she whipped by the train, conducting a visual inspection. She spied the broken window.

Damien had made it. _The crazy bastard._ He actually managed the jump.

Her excitement was short-lived. Clinging to the top of the train, difficult to discern against the grey gunmetal carriage, was a small white figure. It inched its way forward, advancing with dogged determination. A BR85 was mag-sealed to its back.

"One, you've got company."

"I gathered. How _is_ our friend Chase doing?"

"Roof-top insertion. Expect company shortly. Your armament?"

Chidinma could hear the grimace in Damien's voice.

"Combat knife and a can-do attitude?"

"Not good."

"Not _ideal_ under the circumstances, no."

The flyer did a jinking roll as it swooped under the track and rose up on the other side of the train, climbing steadily in an attack pattern.

"I have a target visual. Strike pattern Damocles?"

The implication was clear.

"Negative, Three. We're not murdering another Spartan if we can avoid it."

"So what's the play?"

"Keep an eye on him. Let me know when he makes his move."

* * *

"Arrowhead?" Rashid hissed.

Becker was pacing, difficult to see beyond the swarm of drones and scientists poring over Rashid, boring into his skin with needles and probes. Patient comfort was low on the agenda. They sampled everything: hair, saliva, skin scrapings. Nothing was spared. Still, Becker's voice cut clear above the commotion, echoing against the high ceiling.

"A code name, one that pandered to ONI's flair for the dramatic. The Spartan program had reached a turning point in its development; the technology of the previous generations having brought our work to its final, logical step."

A screen on the far wall winked to life, replacing the Traxus logo. Multi-windowed, a half dozen scenes depicting all corners of UNSC space. They showed the dispersal plains of Laconia, the internal hallways of the UNSC Infinity, and numerous other locations Rashid couldn't even begin to place. To his alarm, much of the footage was timestamped from last week. Row upon row of Spartan candidates stood ready; eyes front, dressed to their necks in bodysuits and Recruit pattern armour. Others showed skeletal auto-manufactories; clasping claws ferrying partially completed armour components towards an endless sea of stamping machinery, soldering needles and fusion torches. An unlimited armoury.

"Mass production." Rashid murmured. Becker was studying the images too, expression grave.

"Mass production." Becker nodded solemnly. "Spartan IV's were Section One's dream come true: a warrior program the UEG could officially get behind. Superheroes, fresh from the assembly line. No guarded murmurings, no whispered _rumours_ or tightly sealed data packets. Just volunteers; normal people imbued with a sense of greater purpose. Under the UEG's stewardship, it would be a bright, brave future: safe-guarded by the unstoppable might of the Spartan legion!"

The scenes on the screens transitioned to a young candidate sprinting on a treadmill. His legs were almost too fast to follow. With a start Rashid recognised himself, aged fourteen. He had not reached full size, and even then he was enormous. He briefly looked down at his new, monstrous prosthetic, an ashen taste in his mouth. He had been so mobile then.

"The IV's would be mass distributed: possessing all the numbers of the III's; all the combat ability of the II's but friendly, relatable. _Of_ the people, _by_ the people, _for_ the people. Genetic advancements would pave over any underlying weaknesses in the volunteers. Technological advances would pre-empt genetic discrepancies."

The next image was of street fighting. Sand and heat, and dust-choked battle cam footage. Much of it was ripped from Luke's helmet cam. He could see Damien and Viktorya as they swept into a breach. Recognised his own arm as it strayed into the edge of the frame once or twice. He was signalling something. The image cut to another scene. An aftermath. Dead Insurrectionist bodies choked a pinch point, as Fireteam Chimera picked their way through the devastation, folding into familiar routine. Just another storm clearance.

Becker spoke over it.

"With the numbers of super soldiers due to increase exponentially, there were questions, valid questions, about the ability of unmodified troopers to withstand Spartan elements. Your team's performance in New Cadiz is not an isolated example. Time and time again, it has been proven that even an entrenched group of hardened fighters cannot withstand a Spartan assault, no matter their resolve. This is not the first time the Spartan Question has been asked, as you are aware."

"I've read the reports. The Charet Commission's concerns were unfounded. There will always be a need for a conventional military. The cost of maintaining a Spartan-based army is enough to bankrupt the entire UNSC."

"And yet every year the technology improves, and that same prohibitive cost is driven ever-lower. A _single_ Spartan changed the course of human history, turning the tide of a thirty year war. Imagine what a _thousand_ could achieve."

"And you deem this a bad thing?" Rashid blinked.

Becker rounded at that, offering a rare scowl.

"I deem it an alarming precedent. The reason for the Spartans' existence has been entirely removed; the Insurrection is little more than an annoyance, the Covenant?A shadow of its former self; reduced to isolated groups of limited cohesion and questionable strategy. You can imagine ONI's concern when it became apparent we had engineered a corps of super soldiers with no discernible weakness, designed to face a threat that no longer exists in a credible sense."

Becker's face clouded. For a moment he seemed almost sad.

"If the Great War was for our survival as a species, then the _next_ war would determine the continued nature of that existence. Humanity survived one war, only to lose sight of itself. We simply exchanged one alien tyrant for another; one carved in our own image."

"Spartans are necessary." Rashid shook his head vehemently, "We've seen the threats mankind face across the galaxy. There will always be a need for a deterrent."

"Yes. But with those deterrents, safeguards. We needed a _solution_ ; a means to ensure order, in the unlikely event the Spartan corps ever went rogue."

"Paranoia." Rashid scoffed.

Becker's scowl hardened.

"Pragmatism. Contingency was everything to Margaret. She needed somebody both willing and capable of going to the lengths she needed. She turned to me."

"You were her favourite?" Rashid raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing so crude. I was a logical choice; well versed in combat doctrine, directly familiar the initial creation of the Spartan program. Forming unconventional solutions to unconventional problems was something of a specialty of mine. I was uniquely placed to identify their weaknesses, to determine how the UNSC could, in the event of a Spartan rebellion, counteract and neutralise its most dangerous asset."

"You sound very proud of yourself; holding the leash of humanity's prize attack dog."

"Somebody had to."

The curious part of Rashid's mind was piqued now. Despite himself, he found himself intrigued.

"So how _did_ you do it?"

"Many maintain that the most effective bullet is the bullet that never has to be fired at all. Others prefer the bullet that only has to be fired _once_. Both are wrong, crude conceits from a bygone era. Where possible, I have dispensed with bullets entirely."

"How very benevolent of you."

"It's a question of efficacy. Ballistic weaponry is at its peak. The post-war arms race will explore lateral advances: underslung plasma rifles; phasic rounds and other similar paths. These did not interest me. Not when there was a more elegant solution available, staring us right in the face."

"Arrowhead." Rashid weighted the word on his tongue, "Piercing, on point…"

Becker smiled and let Rashid continue uninterrupted. He swept a hand toward the screen behind him right as Rashid finished.

"…targeted."

The projection display showed holographic readouts of Spartan operators encased in Mjolnir armour. They were running War Games now; scrambling over simulated environments and butchering each other in an endless cycle of repetitive, addictive violence. Heart rates spiked, adrenal levels at a frenzy.

"Centuries of human conflict, murder, genocide. More than any species alive today, humanity excels at war-making. More calculating than the Prophets, more inventive than the Elites; our capacity for violence is unparalleled. You, Spartan, are the pinnacle of everything we strive for as a species. And therein lies your weakness. For all your advances, for all your sophistication, you remain - at your very core - _human_."

Rashid's eyes narrowed, mulling this over. One of the Spartans on the screen was stepping down from an Armour Assistant, doffing his helmet and handing it to an awaiting technician. It was Luke. He looked down at his armour assistant Park, grinning as they shared some personal joke.

"A man in a suit."

"A man in a suit." Becker repeated solemnly.

"Target the man, the suit becomes little more than expensive window dressing." Rashid blinked, mind racing. "Genetics, then. Some kind of in-built vulnerability."

Becker awarded another smile, as a professor would a favoured student.

"To ensure the weapon was capable of targeting Spartans we needed candidates capable of matching the exacting requirements characteristic of the Spartan II's, but open to a wider and more inclusive target group, reflecting the augmentation methods emblematic of the latest generation. A diverse yet selective control group."

Rashid said nothing, listening. His lips were but the barest seam. His stomach tightened as Becker spoke. For the first time in the longest while, the Spartan felt physically ill.

"Five candidates were selected, in accordance with Doctor Halsey's original selection criteria. Three men, two women. From the earliest inception this control group was seeded with elements of the initial strain."

The images on the wall faded. Now Fireteam Chimera's faces appeared. Head on shots; aged between six and eight; their heads brutally shorn of hair. Induction age, medical history; likely mutagenic properties. A lance of something unfamiliar wormed its way into his gut. After a moment, Rashid realised what it was.

 _Fear._

Becker continued speaking. Rashid's head was swimming.

"Chimera. We were the guinea pigs."

Elias Becker shook his head.

"My dear Rashid, you misunderstand: Chimera was never intended as the name of a _fireteam_. It is the name of the _strain itself_. A synthetic plague, untraceable, as adaptive as it is fast acting; designed to un-seam augmented personnel at a genetic level. All primed to activate on a remote trigger sequence."

Becker leaned closer, his voice right in Rashid's ear.

"And you, my boy, are its _carrier_."

* * *

Damien moved quickly; stepping into the next carriage and sealing the door behind him. The sound in the next cabin was tomb-like, still but for that muted humming tick of the track. Even his muffled footsteps sounded deafeningly loud.

Damien padded forward on careful feet, turning slowly about, his ears pinned back. He held the knife blade down toward the floor; a classic fighter's pose. With sufficient force a molecular blade could be driven through the weak points of a Spartan's armour; the neck seal, the armpits or exposed portions of the under suit. So the theory went anyway. The tricky part was catching a Spartan off-guard enough to put it into practice.

The wall advertisements suddenly updating from the blank wall of red and black warnings to more identifiable advertising. Hunting trips, online firearm and weapon publishers. UNSC Recruitment Posters. And then something more grim. Funeral services, grief counselling and charity drives for the Remember Reach Memorial Fund.

" _Greetings Mr. Keller_ ," one advertorial beamed, " _Would you like to cruise the Argjend River_?"

The skylight burst inward.

Chase dropped down into a smooth crouch, a BR-85 levelled squarely at Damien. Chimera One could barely hear Chidinma's anxious voice in his ear.

"Not a move, 451." The white Spartan warned. "This ends _now_."

* * *

"You're surprised? Don't be. The signs were always there. The side effects, the oddities - your cells' inability to regenerate from modern cloning techniques, for one; the lack of adequate indoctrination at an early level. Quirks per candidate, inevitable side effects of short term candidates intended for uncharted scientific terrain. The reasons for your individuality are quite apparent. You were never intended to survive beyond a certain point."

"So why the change in heart?"

"An error of _selection_. The candidates selected were gifted, perhaps excessively so. Spartan II genetic profiles proved to be remarkably resilient to the initial strain. It was only by the merest chance that one of your group in particular proved amenable to the sequencing required to unlock the wider code. He provided everything we needed. By the merest chance, Arrowhead would succeed."

"So what happened?"

There was no disguising the distaste in Becker's tone.

" _Osman_ happened." he all but spat.

"A changing of the guard, mid-way through Arrowhead's development. Parangosky – so proud, so venerable and formidable, had finally reached the end of her line. Age catches us all in the end. She had ruled ONI with an iron first for over thirty years. Her apprentice wanted to make a name for herself."

There was no disguising the rancour in Becker's voice.

"Arrowhead was one of the first projects against the wall. Something of a personal bias on Osman's part. She hides it more often than not, but she too is a Spartan; subject to the same legacy of augmentation that began with my generation and passed down to yours. In a way I can understand her motivations. Each of us carry an ingrained sense of self-preservation. Nobody wants to brew their own poison."

"You were creating a genophage. A Spartan plague."

"I was creating a _safeguard_. Invisible, fast acting."

"You're talking genocide."

"I'm talking _order_ , I'm talking our very continued _existence_ as a species. Consider the Spartan program; its place within the greater socio-political hierarchy of today's society. How long before a rogue general decides his ideas are better than those of the nearest elected government, that the Spartans under his command are the ones to impose his will? And what if those same Spartans tire of following orders, and strike out on their own? What then?"

"The UNSC will step in."

"The UNSC?" Becker barked a laugh, "If you hold up the UNSC as some kind of moral compass, then simply look in the mirror. You have no _idea_ of the ethical lines we crossed, that _I_ crossed, to bring you into existence. Of the sacrifices and endless compromises that were made, so that humanity might live."

Becker faced entirely circled Rashid by this point. They stood face to face now.

"I am a loyal son of humanity. I have dedicated my life to its preservation and _continued_ advancement. I will not allow it to fall further into the hands of power hungry politicians, misguided generals and would-be dictators; the butchers who would have us all kneel, and call it order. Humanity did not survive one tyrant only to be subjugated by its own creation."

"Nice speech. Have you been preparing it in the mirror?"

Becker scowled imperiously, ignoring the jibe.

"The universe needs an answer to the Spartan Question. I would see that question answered. You stand at a crossroads, Spartan Datar. The choice is simple. You can use your brilliant mind to aid me, and complete the work ONI started over twenty years ago."

"And the alternative?" Rashid asked.

A series of scientists wheeled in a trio of cryo-chambers. Two of them were occupied. The closest one was vacant. Its hatch yawned open as it slid toward him.

"There is none. You will complete your original mission, Rashid Datar. One way... or another."

* * *

Neither Spartan moved. All Damien could see was the barrel of Chase's battle rifle.

"Toss the knife." Chase barked.

Damien complied, hands raised.

"Easy now, Chase. I'm unarmed."

Chase said something in reply, but Damien was too speaking over the internal squad line. His eyes never left the barrel of Chase's rifle. At this range it seemed as wide as a tunnel.

"Chidi, listen up. Victory Square; Havenwood Medical. Rashid's last known position. _Get there_."

"What about you?" Chidinma asked.

"I'll catch up."

"Ten-four, One. Just one thing…"

Something about the tone in Chidi's voice set off alarm bells in Damien's mind. _Oh no._

"Duck!" Chidinma bellowed.

Damien threw himself flat. The entire right hand side of the carriage blew inward; disintegrating in a storm of fire and metal and glass. Plastic seats were ripped to pieces, as glass fragments blew inward and display screens burst in fits of sparks and popping static.

Chase threw himself down too, but not before a half dozen rounds smashed into his flank, driving him against the wall, shields sparking; staining his pristine armour an ugly black.

It was the only opening Damien would get.

He took it.

Thrusters flaring, Chimera One flung himself bodily at the other Spartan; surging forward with an alarming burst of speed. There was no form or technique to it. The Spartans collided with a piercing metallic clap.

Then they were back on their feet, clashing like stags.

Chase drew a side-arm one-handed. Damien was much too quick. He clamped his hands around the weapon, forcing it upward. It discharged four times into the roof before the barrel strained and twisted under the pressure of his grip. Chase slammed his helmet into Damien's, just as the weapon came apart in his hands.

They separated. Damien arced a savage punch toward Chase's helmet. Chase, already halfway back on his feet, instinctively raised the battle rifle to catch the blow. The gun burst apart into its component pieces, scattering across the compartment. Chase countered immediately, smashing his helmet forward into Damien's chest plate, knocking him backward. A flurry of jabs followed, each glancing off warding forearms or whistling through open air as Damien gave ground.

Fighting is a complex, nuanced art. To the untrained eye, watching two practitioners of mixed martial arts can seem ungainly; a brawl lacking in fluidity or theatrics. This was something different. This was fighting on an ab-human scale; reinforced by years of constant training and hypnotherapy. Grappling was useless. Mjolnir would simply auto-lock in the event of a constricting force or unwelcome torque. Understanding this, the Spartans automatically launched into one another with the most effective means of destruction at their disposal: their hands and feet.

Strikes were exchanged rapid fire, blows and counter-jabs executed and traded with alarming precision. For Spartans, drilled extensively in some of the most ruthlessly pragmatic combat systems derived from centuries of human conflict, the complexity of technique becomes a breath-taking spectacle. Punches flowed into kicks, as quickly parried as they were thrown.

Each strike was calculated to be a killing blow. Sparks flew, in a very literal sense. There were metallic shrieks as Mjolnir plate scraped Mjolnir plate; attacking and counter attacking with ferocious speed.

Whatever the damage done by Chidinma's initial fuselade, the Spartan duel proved to be far more destructive. A back-hand from Chase sent Damien crashing clean through a row of seats, only for the Spartan to spring back swinging, one of his punches whistling over the white armoured Spartan's head and crumpling a stanchion with a metallic squeal.

A beaked fist caught Damien in the chest, knocking him backward. He backpedalled, deflecting a seemingly unending series of strikes. Chase's third jab overextended himself. Damien rewarded it by slapping his fist aside and leading in with his elbow. It crunched into Chase's VISR, sending a spider web of cracks lancing across the golden faceplate. Chase snarled and resumed his assault, driving Damien backward. Platinum One, true to his name, was the very embodiment of Spartan lethality; far fresher than his rogue counterpart. Chimera One fell backward, all but overwhelmed.

While the footage of the fight was captured by security cams embedded within the train car walls (and illegally disseminated throughout the Slush for years afterward), the off-centre focus of the footage did little to demonstrate just how quickly the Spartans moved. Every parried punch smashed dents into the walls of the carriage; as the train itself was torn apart in the course of the fight. At one point Damien tore a seat clean free from the wall and smashed it down over Chase's raised elbow. The chair broke in two. Chase's shields merely flickered. The fight continued, relentless.

Neither gained a significant advantage. Frustration won out in the end. Chase ducked his head and surged forward, barrelling into Damien with a savage tackle. They smashed through back into the rear cabin, taking the entire doorframe with them. Damien drove his knees upward, flicking a leg upward; sending Chase hurtling overhead.

When Chase rolled to his feet something flashed in the light.

Somewhere in the melee, he had retrieved Damien's discarded knife.

The two Spartans eyed each other for a moment; the air between them crackling as their shields hummed back to life. Chidinma's barrage had torn a sizeable rent clean through the train carriage behind Damien. The columns surrounding the train whipped by with savage whoops of sucking sound. The train was above the Argjend River now. Beneath them, brilliant silver water sparkled with crystalline purity.

"You wouldn't come quietly. Wouldn't make it easy, would you?" Chase panted.

"And deny myself the opportunity of kicking your arse?" Damien's breathing was every bit as ragged, "Where's the fun in that?"

Chase lunged with a snarl, slashing with the knife.

Damien caught his wrist. Chase expertly let the knife drop into his free hand, but Damien arced a savage elbow into his throat before he could strike. The white Spartan reeled back a step or two; another three as Damien followed up with a whistling combo of strikes – each evaded expertly.

There wasn't enough room to circle. Chase was the fresher of the two combatants, and it showed. For all the damage Chidinma's shots had done, he was the more composed. He crept forward, step by step, utterly confident. Damien retreated, mind-racing. Chase had been the top performing candidate of the Laconia Academy. His dedication to the Spartan Program was absolute, his discipline without peer. On a good day, Damien could hold his own. But this had been a long day, not a good one. Unconsciously, Chimera One retreated, until Damien's heel brushed against the ragged hole in the train car. He wobbled on his feet momentarily, catching his balance. He could feel the wind buffeting him. The support columns of the grav-line whooped past with savage speed. Chase chuckled darkly, the blade flashing as he passed it from hand to hand, effortlessly.

"No room left to run, 451. Last chance. Come quietly."

Chase stalked forward, continuing to juggle the knife.

"Central Station is coming up. There's going to be a hundred UNSC personnel waiting for you; all of them armed to the teeth. Even if you beat me, and you _won't_ , you haven't a prayer. You don't even have a _weapon_."

The blue armoured Spartan dropped low into a defensive crouch. His eyes darted to and fro, taking in every detail. Chidinma's strafing run had left the other Spartan's armour cracked and pitted. Blood trickled down from one or two miniscule holes, glancing nicks where shrapnel had managed to bite in beneath the bodysuit. Spooling out from one of the torn floor sections behind Chase were a series of exposed wires; the sparking intestines of a butchered advertising display.

"Always outnumbered, never out-gunned." Damien growled, raising his hands in a defensive guard.

* * *

Starved of ammunition, the flyer felt noticeably lighter under Chidinma's weight as it tore through the sky toward Victory Plaza. She nimbly skipped over rooftops and dipped under suspension bridges between the 'scrapers; watching the waypoint marker Rashid had set rocket lower and lower. The plaza was the single widest stretch of open terrain in the entire city; a proud promenade of cultivated gardens and winding landscaped paths. An elegant fountain dominated the centre of the square, where an eternal flame was kept in silent vigil for those lost in The Great War.

No longer. Eric's discarded Condor lay beached in the centre of the fountain, having torn a runnel of torn muck and spattered fuel through the heart of the plaza. The Condor lay there, a smoking ruin coated in fire suppression jelly and scorch marks. The UNSC did the rest. A hundred trenches criss-crossed the open gardens; and through her VISR she could make out the bobbing heads of countless UNSC service personnel. All eyes were on the sky as she swooped down toward them. More pressing were the two Mantis Assault Walkers standing guard outside the grand parliament house, their weapon systems tracking to mark the new, miniscule target backlit against the burning sun; little more than a bat-winged shadow.

She was two klicks out when Eric's voice cut in over her com; voice rendered tinny by the weight of signal interference.

"Sierra 483, divert your course to my waypoint marker."

Her HUD blinked, switching from the pearlescent white and silvered glass of Havenwood Medical to the onyx baroque of Traxus Tower. Where one was elegant lines and graceful symmetry, the other was a far older structure; an ugly dagger slammed into the cityscape. It cast a long shadow over the expansive plaza, which was teeming with UNSC infantry. All eyes would be on her momentarily.

"Sir?" Chidinma asked. "Where are you?"

"-axus Tower, far side of the square."

"Can I ask why, Sir? Rashid's LKP was Havenwood Medical. One's instructions were clear."

"Old intel. Liquid situation. Rashid's been moved" Eric's voice was popped with static, "- advancing into the facility now. Find a way inside."

"Solid copy, enroute." Chidinma snapped the controls to one side, throwing the flier into a bank sharper than any normal pilot could endure and hope to endure conscious.

Just in time too. The air filled with a storm of hard lead; snapping and whistling at the air. A textbook infantry response to an aerial target: where deflection and accuracy of ground-to-ground ammunitions failed, weight of fire would succeed. Chidinma didn't make it easy for them. She threw the flier into a complex interlocking series of loops, increasing altitude as she kept one eye on the Tower, seeking an entrance.

Like every other building in Central, Traxus Tower was on lockdown. Heavy slabs of insulated polycrete had slid into place over the vast majority of the building, shielding its vulnerable windows. Traxus Heavy Industries had installed the tower over a hundred years before, where it served as the city's first and only auto-manufactory. Long since decommissioned, it had been sold to private interests, where it remained a dark blight on an otherwise glittering cityscape. Only its historical significance to the colony had safeguarded it from the frustrated cries of architects across the planet.

Chidinma zoomed in her VISR. The building's age betrayed it. While the armoured orbital defence plates were comparatively new, they were a modern solution for an ancient building. Here, the plates had been bolted to the front of the building; ram-shackle and inelegant. There were gaps in the armour; the most noticeable of which was the small horizontal slip of glass lining the snarling grilled lobby of the main entrance lobby. It was a small target; scarcely larger than the flyer itself.

Chidinma grinned, amped for a challenge.

She dove straight for it; a shrieking scream-dive that pressed her back in her saddle, her body bent low to the hull. The torn muck of the Plaza raced up at her, as troopers threw themselves left and right, expecting a suicidal impact. At the last moment she cut the primary engines and engaged the vertical grav-drives, slewing the vehicle into a bouncing climb that brought her level with the ground beneath her. The storm of incoming fire renewed with increased determination. Twice bullets spanked off the flyer's fuselage; one shot even pinked off her thigh armour, eliciting a cursory hiss from her shield system. The Mantis gunners refrained from opening up, too concerned with hitting friendly targets. She ignored them at full thrust; racing over the helmets of panicking marines. Her grav drives threw up a plume of dust and torn grass as she screamed across the plaza. Her eyes never left the small strip of glass ahead. The grin never left her face.

The building shrieked toward her, too fast to take in. A thousand metres melted into a dozen in seconds.

At the last second Chidinma braced in her saddle. Every muscle flexed, tighter than coiled steel.

The world exploded in glass and fire.

* * *

Chase made the first move; a feinting jab flowing into an arcing slash. Damien knew it was coming; had been on the receiving end of such an attack a thousand times before. He deflected the blade off his bracer, slamming into Chase with a flare of his thruster pack. It was graceless, brutish, but against a peerless fighter like Chase, sometimes the most inelegant tactics worked. To Fireteam Platinum, Chimera were dog soldiers; inferior in every respect; brawlers who had to make up for comparative lack of career experience with scrappy improvisation.

Scrappy suited Damien just fine.

Chase lashed back at Damien, the blade arcing for his neck. There was scant distance between the two Spartans now. Damien ducked his helmet forward and butted the sharp edge of the blade aside; a knee-jerk reaction that left him reeling from the hammer blow. Chase shoved Damien to one side, planting a mule kick in the centre of the blue Spartan's chest. Damien collapsed backward, went to roll to his feet. A follow up kick drove him over onto his belly. A second forced the wind from him.

Chase was toying with him now. The Spartans had swapped places on the train. Now Chase's back was to the gaping hole in the train.

"I always wondered why they picked _you_ for the Cadiz op. _We_ were highest in the standings. _We_ had earned First Selection. Look at you now." Damien was stubbornly pushing himself off the floor, "On your knees. Broken!"

Chase slammed his heel down on Damien's back, driving the fallen Spartan flat down on the ground. Damien's shield system bleated in his ears; alarmed at the sheer punishment Platinum One was inflicting.

"Command will realise their mistake today. We would have gone into that damned city, as was our right." Chase beckoned to the city around them. "This entire disaster could have been avoided."

Chase froze, puzzled. Chimera One was laughing.

"What? What is it?" Chase asked sharply.

Damien rolled onto his back, doubled over. He was howling now, tears rolling down his face; pain and amusement combined. He had to suck lungful's of air just to breath.

"Stop it, you idiot!" Chase demanded, "What are you gibbering about?!"

"You might be the best, Chase." Damien depolarised his visor, looking the triumphant Spartan dead in the eye. "But can you swim?"

Chase looked down.

Wrapped around his leg was a discarded electrical cable.

Damien twisted his fingers inside the wiring, before plugging it into Chase's leg. It was a parlour trick, one Rashid had taught him in their last ill-fated escape attempt in Laconia. UNSC wiring is distressingly uniform, Rash had said at the time. Those words proved alarmingly prophetic.

A million volts of electricity surged through Chase's armour. The Mjolnir system would have weathered it comfortably. The bodysuit, robust in the extreme, served as an excellent insulator. But the shrapnel biting through his leg, tiny and inconsequential though they were, was the gap Damien needed. It channelled the power of the train, which combined with the shielding of Platinum One's own armour. Chase shrieked. It was an animal shriek, barely human. He would have been killed outright had the architecture of his suit not ablated the full brunt of the surge. Bolt upright, arms spread and fingers splayed in rictus agony, he rocked on the spot as the electricity arced through him.

Damien put him out of his misery. With a flare of his thrusters, he flew upwards. A neat uppercut sent Chase clean out the side of the train, falling toward the water below.

Damien never saw where Platinum One's body impact. He didn't care.

With a weary groan he reached down and retrieved his boot knife.

"And as a matter of fact, Chase." Damien panted aloud, "I _do_ have a weapon."

* * *

Chidinma groaned and rolled onto her back. The entire right hand side of her body plate had been entirely shorn of colour, rendered little more than tortured scrapes. A dozen impact warnings bleeped at her across the bottom of her HUD. She ignored them, forcing her lungs to suck in air; head spinning from the adrenal high. Her weapon was gone; the flyer a flaming ruin on the far side of the expansive lobby. Her weapons were gone, shredded on impact.

She sat up, thoroughly spooked.

The entire lobby was dark; a cyclopean cave. No guards, no lighting of any kind. The gloom was entirely unnerving. Her VISR automatically began to pick out details, adjusting for the minimal lighting. A series of giant support pillars lined each side of the lobby. The floor was a polished vastness. A Traxus sigil was inscribed in the floor.

Two spot lights snapped into life, high in the darkness.

Chidinma rose to her feet, bathed in the piercing light.

She stared up into it defiantly.

The entire floor shook as a machined striding leg fully twice her height stomped forward out of the black. Jet black, dressed in reinforced armour plating. Chidinma blinked. It was too tall for a standard Mantis Assault Walker, by fully a third. A custom job, some obscure ONI designation whose full capabilities she could only guess at.

A PA system keened to life; a thick Scottish accent, low and menacing.

"Welcome to ONI Testing Facility 000-000-343. A black-site, home to some of the most sophisticated weaponry in the entire UNSC. Entirely under Black Shard control."

It stalked forward like some menacing flightless bird; bedecked in state of art weaponry. A low chuckle emanated from the PA.

"I am Aengus McBride, and I will be serving as your instructor today."

Weapon pods unfurled with a descending whirr. Rotary emplacements, micro-missile launchers and point defence lasers. More weapon systems than she could rightly count. They hummed as they powered to life.

"Your final test begins… _now_."


End file.
